


Take Me All the Way

by MiniMangaFan



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multimedia, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trips, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMangaFan/pseuds/MiniMangaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras can see the appeal of having a friend with him when travelling across Europe to visit Combeferre and Courfeyrac in Poland, but being accompanied Grantaire, endlessly frustrating Grantaire who gets under Enjolras’ skin in ways he can’t explain, was not his first choice. Yet two weeks with no other company is enough to force anyone to reassess their relationship, and maybe visiting a new city every day with Grantaire by Enjolras’ side won’t be the worst thing in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me All the Way

**Author's Note:**

> okay this is the longest fic I've ever written and I'm so glad to be publishing it, finally!
> 
> thank you so much to [Emily](http://cosettethemermaid.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing this for me!
> 
> thank you to the mods [besanii](http://besanii.tumblr.com/) and [kiyala](http://kiyala.tumblr.com/) for putting on this whole big bang! it was the first one I've ever taken part in and it has been a lot of fun c:
> 
> and thank you so so so much to [Ramona](http://deadpokerface.tumblr.com/) for actually choosing my fic to draw aMAZING art for which you have to look at [HERE](http://deadpokerface.tumblr.com/post/100093657945/so-im-finally-allowed-to-post-my-les-mis-big/), it's gorgeous and so much better than anything I could have ever hoped for! seriously, I'm still looking at it in awe, it's beautiful
> 
> Warning: as tagged above, there's a scene involving recreational drug use (cannabis), it's not a critical scene so if you wish to skip it, it won't impact your following of the plot c:
> 
> Finally, this fic has some interactive elements in the form of pictures and the odd video linked into the text, so enjoy!

Combeferre’s smile freezes on Enjolras’ mobile phone for the briefest of seconds, before resuming movement as he greets Enjolras.

“It feels like it’s been weeks since I saw you,” he laughs, the static of his voice filling the relative silence of the Musain. Their friends edge closer, trying to get in view of Enjolras’ phone to see Combeferre (whose smile is steadily getting brighter). “Not just a few days. How is everyone?”

“Missing you!” Jehan shouts, too close to Enjolras’ ear for comfort. “And Courfeyrac, where is he?”

“He’s showering,” Combeferre answers, twisting his head to look behind him. “Just finished, actually, which means it’s my turn. Courfeyrac! Everyone’s on Skype, come say hello.”

Courfeyrac’s face appears over Combeferre’s shoulder, a towel wrapped around his head. He kisses Combeferre’s cheek lightly and beams into the camera. “Not having too much fun without us?”

“Enjolras wanders about like an abandoned puppy,” Grantaire yells from a few tables over, the only one not crowded around Enjolras. He grins at Enjolras, tipping his bottle towards him, and kicks back on his chair, the picture of ease. “By the time you come back, he’ll be as bad as Marius without Cosette.”

Enjolras huffs, rolling his eyes at the camera. “I’m not that bad,” he insists, but Courfeyrac is laughing so hard Enjolras doubts he’s taking any notice of him. “Honestly, I’m hardly an abandoned puppy. Combeferre has every right to go see his family and take you with him; I can handle their leaving just fine.”

“Sure you can, that’s why—”

“Thanks, Grantaire, I think that’s enough.”

“I’ll have to talk to you all later,” Combeferre tells him, cutting through their conversations as easily as if he were there in person. “I need to shower and I don’t trust Courfeyrac with my phone unlocked.”

“Call whenever you want,” Enjolras adds, just before they can disappear again. “Don’t worry about time differences or anything, just call.”

“We will,” Combeferre says softly and, with an exuberant wave from Courfeyrac, hangs up.

“You know you can go and see them any time you like,” Jehan whispers, sliding his arms around Enjolras’ shoulders. His jumper is bright yellow and furry; Enjolras can see clumps of fur getting stuck to his own shirt. “Combeferre and his parents would be thrilled to have you for a week or two! And imagine how much of Warsaw you could see in that time with Combeferre as your guide.”

“It wouldn’t be fair of me to intrude,” Enjolras murmurs in response, tilting his head back towards Jehan. “Especially when Combeferre’s gone for such personal reasons.”

“All the more reason for you to be there.” Jehan hums, stepping back from Enjolras and stretching his tiny arms. “Combeferre probably needs you just as much as he needs Courfeyrac, he just didn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It wouldn’t be an inconvenience,” Enjolras shoots back, catching sight of Jehan’s grin. He sighs, staring up at him helplessly. “I can’t fly there, Jehan.”

“Take the train,” Feuilly chips in, sitting on the spare chair next to Enjolras. “Go right across Europe; make a road trip out of it.”

“Oh do that!” Joly shouts, scrambling closer and drawing everyone’s attention. “You don’t have any exams left do you?” Enjolras shakes his head. “Then why not? You could go to Italy and Germany and Czech Republic, oh think of all the cuisine you could try!”

“I can’t just up and leave for a few weeks,” Enjolras protests weakly as Joly borrows Bossuet’s notebook to sketch a poor map of Europe. He colours in a spot for Paris and another on the opposite side of the page for Warsaw.

“R and I did last summer.” Bahorel shrugs, kicking Grantaire’s chair as he leans backwards. It wobbles for a moment before Grantaire regains balance, sticking his middle finger up at Bahorel, who grins back. “Where did we go again?”

Grantaire’s eyes flick to the ceiling as he recites, “France, Italy, Austria, Hungary, Romania, Slovakia, Poland, Germany, Netherlands and back to France.”

“Yeah, we didn’t have a route planned or anything, just spent a good while saving up money and bought one of those passes, you know the ones that give you unlimited travel for thirty days or something.”

“It helped that my grandma just kicked the bucket,” Grantaire smiles fondly, “the bigoted buzzard left me enough for both of our tickets the entire way.”

“I’ll think about it,” Enjolras says carefully, staring horrified at Grantaire.

“But you can’t go alone,” Jehan tells him earnestly. “You need someone in case something happens to you, like you get lost or lose all your possessions.”

“Who can come?” Enjolras asks, watching his friends try and figure out if they’re available to leave the country for a few weeks.

“I can’t take time off work,” Feuilly says, a twinge of sadness in his voice. “And I’ve got to make sure Bahorel actually graduates this year.”

“Hey fuck you, I’ll pass.” Bahorel chucks a scrunched up ball of paper at Feuilly’s head. It hits his temple and drops to the floor as Feuilly stares blankly at him.

“Good, because I do your finances and taking out more loans to repeat a year is unadvisable.”

“What about me?” Grantaire tilts his head as he studies Enjolras’, undoubtedly looking for a reaction. “I finished university years ago and as long as I have my tablet, I can work anywhere.”

“You?” Enjolras lifts an eyebrow, trying to picture Grantaire and him, travelling across of Europe on a train. “ _You?”_

Grantaire claps his hand to his chest, mock pain spreading across his face. “I’m hurt, Enjolras, truly.”

Enjolras sighs. “I’m not making any big decisions now, so I’ll think about it.”

***

He does think about it, and the more he considers the idea, the more appealing it becomes, because in all truthfulness, he’s _lonely_. Enjolras has never had to spend a night alone before. If his parents went away when he was young, there’d be the house staff to keep him company. Later on, when Combeferre had moved to Paris, he’d spend the nights with him. Throughout university he has lived in houses filled with enough people that there was _always_ someone else, and even in his final years Combeferre or Courfeyrac were nearly always around. But now they’re on the other side of the continent and Enjolras can hardly leave their home unattended for the entire summer whilst he camps out in a different friend’s house every week.

“I’ll go,” Enjolras tells Grantaire the next day once he’s made his final decision, finding him at the Musain.

Grantaire looks up, his brows creasing when he locks his tablet, lowering the screen of his laptop. Enjolras' cheeks heat under his stare, his shoulders shifting into defensive mode instinctively. "And you're sure about this?" he asks.  
  
"Yes," he takes a seat opposite Grantaire, folding his hands on the table, "Which is why I want to talk about our plan for the trip."  
  
"You've got destinations in mind?"  
  
"A few," Enjolras admits, because he did think about this before agreeing, and Feuilly was right, if he's taking the train across Europe he may as well visit some cities along the way. There are plenty he has always wanted to see, and now is as good a time as any. "Venice and Vienna are two, plus Amsterdam on our way back, maybe?"  
  
"Come up with a list of cities for there and back, and I'll be fine with it."  
  
"Don't you want more input than that?" Enjolras asks, rubbing his face and groaning. If Grantaire is going to come with him, he needs to have some kind of input otherwise Enjolras will be out of his mind with guilt.  
  
"Sure." Grantaire lifts his laptop screen, biting his lower lip as he types for a moment before turning it to face Enjolras. "Eurail plan your destination. I want to visit Bern, I've heard promising things from pretty reliable sources about it. Spain should be out considering we won’t want to go that far south, you feel?"  
  
Enjolras' fingers glide over the trackpad as he plots their route, adding a few extra cities muttering under his breath. "How about this?"  
  
A waitress comes to collect Grantaire's empty coffee as he reads the screen, and Enjolras asks for a coffee of his own. He examines the table whilst he waits, thumbing the scratches in the wood and tracing the curves.  
  
"Sounds good," Grantaire nods and Enjolras finds himself smiling, "When do you want to leave?"  
  
"This weekend? I miss Combeferre and Courfeyrac more than I thought I would."  
  
"No shame in that," Grantaire tells him, his eyes fond, "they are your best friends, after all."  
  
Enjolras hums, drumming his nails on the table. "Are you sure you're okay to come? This can't be convenient for you, and if you're doing this just so I don't have to go alone then thank you for the thought but honestly, I'll be fine."  
  
The harsh laugh, more of a snort really, that escapes Grantaire's throat sends a jolt through Enjolras. "I'm not coming just so you don't have to be all by yourself, you narcissistic prick, I do want to go for myself -"  
  
"That's not what I-"  
  
"Do you want me to come?"  
  
"I," Enjolras pauses, his words sticking in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. A holiday with just Grantaire, doesn't sound terrible; Grantaire is funny and surprisingly charming, it's not a chore to talk to him at all. It's just - close quarters with Grantaire for a few weeks with no real chance for privacy. It could go so, _so_ wrong. "Yes, if you genuinely want to come then I want you there."  
  
"Okay."  
  
They finish their drinks in silence.

***

"You know I think trains smell this soul destroying all over the world," Grantaire says, pushing his rucksack into the overhead compartment with a surprising amount of ease considering the tight space between the rows of seats. He squeezes past and collapses into the chair, short limbs splayed everywhere. "I call window seat."  
  
"I never really minded anyway," Enjolras says, sitting on the rough seat and toeing the strap of his suitcase. He glances around the car, taking in the train station through the large square window, framing Grantaire’s head. The walls are a bleak grey, draining the life from the carriage, and there’s a distinct stale smell drifting up from the carpet. "As long as it's not a plane, I don't mind. The smell is preferable to being over 30,000 feet in the air."  
  
"Aerophobic?" The chair squeaks as Grantaire shifts, almost tipping into Enjolras.  
  
"Absolutely," Enjolras throws his hands forwards, steadying Grantaire. He giggles, watching the sheepish smile spread across Grantaire's cheeks. "Try not to hurt yourself before we even leave the station. But yes, it's extremely inconvenient, just the thought of boarding a plane is terrifying."  
  
Grantaire moves again, leaning against the wall with his shoulder pressed up in a way that Enjolras is certain must be uncomfortable, but Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind. "We've all got our irrational fears, hell mine are ridiculous when you apply logic to it. Though I suppose most things are when faced with logic, that’s why they’re phobias I guess, illogical, irrational, all that crap."  
  
"What are they?" Enjolras asks. He’s never heard Grantaire talk about his fears before, and it’s not that he assumed Grantaire was completely fearless, no one is fearless, but imagining Grantaire scared, his hands trembling like Enjolras’ do, just doesn’t make sense to him. He can’t picture Grantaire scared. Enjolras can’t picture Grantaire truly upset either, the more he thinks about it. Does he bite his lips to distract from the tears? Would he want to be held, or left alone? Enjolras doesn’t know how to think of Grantaire as anything other than his usual state, a carefully constructed balance between bitter amusement and a desire to contradict everything Enjolras says. He wants to know Grantaire better, and at least these few weeks will give him that opportunity.

“Well, aside from the overwhelming fear of the future,” Grantaire says, cutting straight through Enjolras’ reverie, “bugs, the unholy demons, especially those that fly, and spiders, goddamn spiders freak the shit out of me. Storms too. And needles. Can't handle them."  
  
"But you’re -" Enjolras gestures to the tattoos dotted along Grantaire's arms and peeking out from the neckline of his shirt.  
  
"Stick-and-poke tattoos, all of them,” Grantaire explains, lifting up his arm and shuffling closer, showing Enjolras the fine little dots making up the constellation. “Either Feuilly or me will do them, but regardless, it takes as long as I want it to on _my_ terms. More control that way, it helps.” Grantaire pauses, his stomach rumbling loud enough for Enjolras to hear. “I’m going to track down some food, do you want anything?”

“No thanks, but if you could get me some water that’d be great,” Enjolras slides his hand into his pocket, feeling for the coins, “I think I’ve got some change here somewhere, it shouldn’t be too much should it?”

Grantaire waves his hand dismissively, edging out into the aisle and turning to say “I’ve got you covered,” before weaving his way to the front of the carriage and disappearing out of sight.

Enjolras watches him go before peering out through the window of the train, the station still in view, the lights illuminating the signs in the early morning darkness. It’s only for a few weeks, then he’ll be home, he reminds himself. And in the meantime, he’ll see Courfeyrac and Combeferre again, and that thought has him grinning when Grantaire returns with a sandwich and two bottles of water, handing one to Enjolras.

***

“Have you ever been to Lyon before?” Enjolras asks as the sun starts to rise, shining through the window and on to his book, resting in his lap. Grantaire dozes next to him, his head lolling back against the seats until beams of light settle across his face and he jolts awake. Enjolras laughs as Grantaire blinks wearily, rubbing his palms against his cheeks.

“I lived there a while ago, only for a year and a bit, before I came to Paris,” Grantaire tells him, voice rough from sleep. “My grandmother lived in Lyon and I stayed with her before I went to university in Paris, but I didn’t move again then, because Paris, you know. Who’d want to live somewhere else when you’ve lived in Paris?”

“Do you want to go visit her while we’re there?” Enjolras slips his hand into his pocket, pulling out the papers for the itinerary he put together with all their train times and accommodation times, searching for Lyon. “We’re only there for a day, with another early morning start tomorrow because it’s not far to Bern, but we can definitely stop off at her house if you can get us there. Wait, shit, was this the grandmother that died?”

“The very one,” Grantaire says, catching sight of Enjolras’ mortified expression and chuckling to himself. “We didn’t get on that well, so I wasn’t exactly devastated when she died, and it’s been a long time, Enjolras, don’t worry about it. But in answer to your question, we don’t need to stop at her old house, unless you fancy giving the new residents a confusing visit. But I remember enough about the city to get us around for the day and I’m assuming you have maps too, because you must be over-prepared for this.”

Blood rushes to Enjolras’ cheeks as he flicks his gaze up to his bag, thinking of all the maps he printed off and collected to bring with them. “It’s hardly over-preparing,” he says, blushing even more as Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him, “and when you get lost in a city neither of us have been too, you’ll be grateful for my maps.”

“Can you read them?”

Enjolras pauses. “It’s not that hard, surely? Can _you_ read them?”

“Of course,” Grantaire says, as if he’s offended that Enjolras even considered doubting his abilities, “I have a degree in cartography.”

“You do not… do you?” Enjolras is pretty certain Grantaire is lying, but he sounds so resolute that maybe Enjolras just made some incorrect assumptions. Grantaire is a few years older than him and had just finished university when Enjolras started so it’s not like he knew exactly what lectures Grantaire attended or –

“You’re right, I don’t,” he admits and Enjolras exhales sharply, batting his hand against Grantaire’s forearm. “Art history and classical studies combined, I don’t give a fuck about maps.”

“I knew it!” Enjolras yells, before clapping his hands over his mouth when the couple behind them start grumbling about the noise and early time of the morning. “Why lie?”

A grin plays at Grantaire’s lips, and when he replies “Because teasing you is entertaining,” Enjolras just rolls his eyes.

***

The air is warm and thick when Enjolras and Grantaire step out of the train station and into the sun, standing to the side to allow crowds of people to pass them. Blue skies stretch on above them to the edge of the horizon, where dark grey clouds slowly roll in, forcing Enjolras to question whether sun cream is worth it there’s a possibility of a storm.

“So, oh Great and Trusted Guide,” he says, turning to Grantaire after he’s unfolded his map, “where to first?”

“If I recall correctly,” Grantaire starts, plucking the map from Enjolras’ outstretched hands and peering around the chaotic street corners, lined with towering buildings that reflect the sun, “we should be able to walk just around there,” he points to a smaller street branching off to the left, “to get to [_Traboules du Vieux Lyon_](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/88/Traboule_courtyard_C_staircase_Lyon.jpg)which could be worth seeing. We haven’t lost much time if it’s not, at least. I’m pretty sure it’s that way.”

Enjolras nods, shifting his backpack on his shoulders, “Lead the way.”

Thankfully, Grantaire’s memory holds up enough that they do manage the short walk (shorter than Enjolras expected it to be) to the traboules without any trouble. They walk into a small courtyard, Grantaire first, Enjolras only a step or two behind, looking up at the tall red building littered with windows.

Grantaire leans against one of the cement walls, a newer addition to the site. There are a few people milling about, but they quickly head into the traboules, leaving the courtyard empty bar them.

“What invention is over hundreds of years old, but is still used in most modern day structures and buildings?” he asks, breaking the silence as Enjolras inspects the stone tiles on the floor, toeing the loose rocks. “You can think whilst we explore,” he adds, leading Enjolras through the arch of the old building.

Enjolras frowns as he follows, humming to himself and sorting through his thoughts. Inventions used to measure time have been around for millennia, so a clock would make sense, but they've changed so much over the years and clocks aren't the original idea. Plus it’s more like a piece of furniture, over part of a structure.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Grantaire says, causing Enjolras to jump and blush; he hadn't realised Grantaire had been staring at him. “It’s used to see through walls.”

“To see through walls,” Enjolras repeats, running the phrase over and over in his head. He slows to a stop again, chewing on his bottom lip. It hits him when he flicks his gaze back up to Grantaire, who’s still staring, and standing in front of a large window. “Windows.”

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner,” Grantaire laughs, picking up his pace again. “There are so many windows in here, I thought I’d share the riddle.”

“Combeferre would like that,” Enjolras sighs, his heart aching as he thinks about not being able to ring him or text him or just be near him whenever he wanted to. “Remind me to tell it to him when we get to Warsaw, though he probably won’t need the hint like I did.”

“Well,” Grantaire says, “not everyone has Combeferre’s superhuman intellect, and might I remind you how shit he is in a pub quiz, so there’s that comforting thought.”

“True, everyone scrambled for him on our teams and he was the most useless in the whole thing.” Enjolras remembers the quiz the Musain hosted as a tester, to see whether it was worth holding every week. Of course Les Amis took part, splitting off into three teams and arguing over Combeferre until he just sat down next to Marius and Courfeyrac, declaring himself part of their team. The quiz started and everyone discovered that as intelligent as Combeferre is, and how deep his knowledge is in some subjects, general knowledge is _so_ not his forte.

They walk through the traboules, Grantaire alternating between admiring the architecture that has stood the test of time, worn down over the years but ultimately still standing, and explaining that whilst these traboules were originally used for transporting silk and other goods, they were also used to defend Lyon against the German forces in World War Two.

By the time they leave (Enjolras tries to draw out the visit for Grantaire, but architecture can only hold his attention for so long), the sun is high and beating down on Enjolras’ exposed skin, forcing him to dig out his sun cream and slather it on, otherwise he’ll be red as a lobster by the time it begins to rain.

“Just down here is the [Museum of Fine Arts](http://www.cybevasion.fr/photos2/lyon-musee-des-beaux-arts-1.jpg) my granddad used to take me too, do you want to visit it or—”

“Sure,” Enjolras nods, letting Grantaire once again lead him through the winding streets. Having another person here with him is much preferable to being by himself, he thinks, if only because Grantaire walks with an undefinable quality, not quite confidence, Enjolras can’t recall Grantaire ever walking with confidence, but an assuredness that comes with knowing where you’re going, or at least pretending to know. They end up at their destination either way.

And well, their destination is an art museum, so whilst Enjolras is grateful for the meticulously monitored air conditioning and reprieve from the sun (Combeferre and Courfeyrac had to go away in the _summer_ didn’t they?), he cares about art even less than architecture.

“This one though,” Grantaire says, pulling Enjolras out of the way from another few tourists taking forbidden pictures of the painting on their phones, “this is my favourite. It’s really clever when you know the artist’s thoughts behind it.”

Enjolras listens as Grantaire explains to him how the artist, Gustav Klimt, wove their ideas into the colour scheme, and how the lighting reflects their choices, and it all means nothing to him. He can appreciate that it’s good, but it’s not eliciting much emotion, not like it is in Grantaire, who’s grinning as he talks, gesturing wildly and pointing at different parts of the painting. It’s easy to engage with what Grantaire’s saying, at the very least.

“You must be so bored,” Grantaire winces when Enjolras accidentally yawns during the middle of one of Grantaire’s miniature speeches, “I promise I won’t be much longer—”

“No, no, not at all,” Enjolras assures him, or tries too. There’s an embarrassed blush creeping across Grantaire’s cheeks that Enjolras wishes he could just make disappear. “These are your interests and I’m more than happy to go around with you. It was just the early morning, that’s all. I don’t do early mornings if I can help it.”

“Are you sure?” Grantaire’s brows narrow and he stares at Enjolras, disbelieving. “Because if you want to go—”

“When are you going to get the chance to come to this museum again?”

Grantaire hesitates; Enjolras knows he’s won. “Not for a long time.”

“Then enjoy it now, I’m not bored, I promise.” Grantaire still doesn’t look satisfied, so Enjolras musters up the best ‘I’m interested’ expression he possibly can and wraps his hand around Grantaire’s upper arm, shuffling closer. “You were saying something about the colour choice for their clothes, tell me more about that.”

It’s decided, once they explored the museum for as long Enjolras can convince Grantaire too, that Enjolras gets to choose the next destination. “I’m kind of hungry, and,” he pauses, breaking away from Grantaire’s gaze, “my feet are hurting a little. What do you think about finding a café and sitting down for lunch somewhere?”

“Oh thank God,” Grantaire laughs with relief, “my feet are killing me but I didn’t want to complain. I’m so up for finding somewhere to sit down.”

The café they choose is a tiny little thing, completely in the shade and with actual decent Wi-Fi that Enjolras uses to message the rest of their friends back in Paris, and Grantaire uses to email someone commissioning his art. The food is decent, the drinks are cold and all-in-all it’s a nice break from a morning of sightseeing.

“We should probably aim to get to the hostel somewhere between five and six,” Enjolras says as they leave enough money on the table to cover the bill plus a tip, and head on down to the [Parc de la Tête d'Or](http://www.worldrose.org/awards/gardens/images/Tete-dOr.jpg) where they can lounge around even more for free. “If I give you the address, will you know how to get there?”

“Depends where it is on the map.” Grantaire shrugs, looking around at the buildings they walk past. Most are relatively new, though they could do with being repainted in the near future. Enjolras can’t see anything particularly special about them. “I know this area well because I spent a lot of time here in this park, but Lyon’s a pretty big city you know.”

“Well you know Paris well enough,” Enjolras points out. Between Gavroche, Feuilly and Grantaire, there’s not a square inch of Paris that none of the Amis don’t know.

“I’ve lived in Paris for years, Enjolras,” Grantaire reminds him, “Lyon for not even a quarter of that time.”

“As long as we find it in the end, I suppose.”

They end up spending the whole afternoon in the park, walking a circuit of it at first, finding the optimum place to lounge, as Grantaire so succinctly put it, before nearly collapsing under a tall, thick oak tree. Thankfully, the grass isn’t damp and there aren’t too many bugs (Grantaire did a sweep before they picked the spot and dumped their bags), so Enjolras lies back and watches the storm clouds roll closer.

“Smile!”

There’s a flash blurring Enjolras’ vision for a split second, before he flips over and catches sight of Grantaire grinning and holding up a small pink digital camera. He takes another before Enjolras has the chance to wipe the startled look off his face, and a third when Enjolras starts glaring.

“I thought you were asleep!” he protests, tearing the camera away from Grantaire’s hands (though Grantaire nearly dropped it anyway, he’s laughing so hard).

“I was,” Grantaire wheezes, clutching his belly, “but when I woke up you looked so much like sleeping beauty lying on your back I couldn’t help it.”

Enjolras scrolls through the truly awful pictures and whines loudly, like a cat being strangled, before the camera is snatched away again. He looks up to see Grantaire cradling it to his chest, still grinning at him.

“Besides,” he says, “Jehan asked me to take pictures and videos where I can, so do you really want to risk upsetting Jehan? If we return with no pictures, he may cry. Do you want that on your conscious, Enjolras?”

“That’s a low blow,” Enjolras huffs, but just the thought of Jehan happily viewing their pictures, a soft smile on his face, has Enjolras losing the will to delete them in the middle of the night when Grantaire’s actually sleeping, not just dozing. “He’ll probably make them into a scrapbook.”

“Your horrified face will be immortalised for millennia,” Grantaire grins, “tales will be told about Enjolras the marble statue, face contorted into –”

“The speech really isn’t necessary, R.”

“Relax,” Grantaire leans back on to the grass, the smile still plastered on his face. Enjolras is glad he’s smiling at least, even if it did come at the cost of his wounded pride. “I promise to tell you when I next take photos of you, okay?”

“Fine,” Enjolras grumbles, resuming his position flat on his back next to Grantaire. “But if a few awful pictures of you appear on that camera overnight, you had it coming.”

“You mean all photos with me in them,” Grantaire says bitterly, tossing the camera on to his rucksack. “My presence ruins them all, at least you still look b–” He cuts off sharply, staring at Enjolras for a long moment before a smirk returns to his lips, “as least you don’t look like a gargoyle in any of these.”

“Now _that_ is an exaggeration,” Enjolras’ voice is caught halfway between light-hearted and serious, trying not to let on how much Grantaire’s comments resonated with him, “you never look like a gargoyle, even on your worst of days, and I saw you the morning after Halloween, and you were pretty rough then.”

“Oh God, don’t remind me,” Grantaire groans, covering his face with his hands. “I never want to think about those two days again.”

“Were they that bad?”

“Awful,” Grantaire insists, “I’ve still got scars from trying to climb the side of Cosette’s dad’s house to find you guys and a place to stay for the night. I think I was looking pretty good for the shit I went through then.”

Enjolras hums, “The skeleton look suited you.”

“Not as much as the nurse suited you, Christ –”

“That was a dare and I thought I made everyone promise not to mention it again.”

“As you wish,” Grantaire winks, and Enjolras’ cheeks flame under his gaze, “but we should probably try and find the hostel now. Where did you say it was again?”

***

The hostel is, thankfully, not hard to get to. It’s not too far from the city centre and if they’re lucky, it should be an easy trek to the train station tomorrow morning when they have to leave. For now, they check in and head to their dorm, feeling a little too old to be staying there.

The walls are painted a crisp white, with splashes of blue that looks like it has been carefully drawn out in order to imitate actual splashes, a level of irony Enjolras can barely appreciate but it gets a laugh out of Grantaire. The sixteen beds are bunks, of which only three sets seem to be occupied, and they’re covered with neatly made up white sheets and duvets.

“I call top bunk,” Grantaire says, dumping his bag on the top bunk of the available set the furthest away from the other people in the dorm. He clambers up after it and sprawls out on the bed, sighing loudly.

Enjolras follows, shaking his head. “Does it really matter to you that much?” he asks, placing his things on the bottom bunk and staring at Grantaire. “Not that I mind, of course, but you practically sprinted over here.”

“It’s very important to me,” Grantaire says with mock-seriousness lacing his voice. Enjolras rolls his eyes. “So, Enjolras, we’re here, we’re checked in. What do you want to do?”

“I was going to see if I could connect to some Wi-Fi around here and talk to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, or everyone back home. Unless you have something else you wanted to do, that is?”

“I’m gonna take a nap, to be honest,” Grantaire says as he stretches, his back arching off the bed and catching Enjolras’ attention. “I might explore later, haven’t decided yet.”

Enjolras’ brows lift, disbelief painting his face. “How many naps can one man have?”

“Never enough,” Grantaire answers him, his voice getting softer already and within seconds his breathing is evening out and he’s out cold.

Curling himself up into his own bed, Enjolras laughs to himself. He grabs his laptop from his bag and boots it up, settling into a comfortable position. He accesses the Wi-Fi and logs into Skype, waiting to see who’s online. Combeferre’s icon has the green spot, so he doesn’t hesitate to send a message straight away.

The hours tick by as he talks to Combeferre, telling him about Lyon and asking after his family and Courfeyrac (who occasionally steals the laptop from Combeferre to reply to Enjolras himself). They’re doing well, despite the decline in his father’s health, and arrangements are being made for Grantaire and Enjolras when they arrive.

He checks his emails during the lulls of the conversation, replying to the most urgent at first, comments and questions sent to his blog mostly, and checks the news, reading through the articles as more conversations start up, Jehan, Bahorel and Bossuet all coming online later in the evening. By the time it’s eight o’clock he’s shutting his laptop down again feeling more relaxed than he has all day.

“Hey, Enjolras, you hungry?” Grantaire asks from above, causing Enjolras to startle, almost falling off the edge of his bed.

“R? I didn’t know you were awake,” he says, slipping out and climbing up the first few rungs of the ladder to meet Grantaire eye-to-eye.

“I’ve been drawing for a bit, didn’t see the point in making a whole fanfare.” Grantaire shrugs. “But the question still stands, are you hungry?”

Enjolras nods, folding his arms on Grantaire’s mattress. “Yeah, we can explore on the way to the canteen. Ready?”

“Yep,” Grantaire says, jumping down as Enjolras steps away. “Let’s go.”

The food the hostel serves is certainly not the best food in the world by any measurement, but it’s hot and edible and Enjolras doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick when he swallows so it’s good enough for him, especially considering what they’re paying to stay there. Grantaire picks at his for a while, before biting the bullet and forcing it down, only worrying Enjolras marginally.

“What time will our train leave the station?” he asks as they head back to their dorm, full and starting to feel the chill of the night air as well as sharp pricks of rain. “It’s an early one, right?”

“Yes, very early, but we’ll have a whole two days in Bern,” Enjolras replies, digging through his bag to find the timetable he brought. “It leaves at 06:37, meaning we should arrive at Bern around half ten. Provided there aren’t any delays.”

“So it’s an early night tonight?”

“That’d be for the best,” Enjolras says. “There won’t be too many early mornings, I promise.”

“Nah,” Grantaire waves his hand dismissively, “it’s fine, my sleep schedule is wacked anyway, early mornings aren’t that much of a hassle for me.”

“Lucky you,” Enjolras grumbles, “I hate them, but this gives us the quickest mode of travel and best chance to get some decent sightseeing done.”

“Your sacrifices are greatly appreciated,” Grantaire teases. “Come on, Enjolras, our beds are calling.”

***

The train journey to Bern is uneventful, bar one minor incident where Enjolras spilled his water bottle all over Grantaire’s lap, leaving some less than desirable wet patches that Enjolras couldn’t physically stop himself apologising for.

“It’s fine, honestly,” Grantaire tells him for the hundredth time as he stretches his legs out as much as he’s able. They didn’t bring many pairs of clothes with them, travelling light doesn’t allow for much, so Grantaire is reluctant to switch out his jeans over some spilt water. “Who cares if it looks like I pissed myself? It’ll dry up soon. You don’t need to apologise.”

“Okay,” Enjolras relents finally, to Grantaire’s immense relief. “Okay, I won’t apologise anymore. Just let me know if I can make—”

“There’s nothing to make up for, Enjolras,” Grantaire points out. “Nothing. Now come on, we’ve got another hour and a half left on this infernal train, talk to me about something.”

“Like?” Enjolras folds down the corner of his book, shutting the covers and angling himself to face Grantaire properly.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire shrugs, his lips curling into a smile. “Entertain me, Enjolras.”

Enjolras chews his lip as he thinks, racking his brain for something entertaining to tell Grantaire. Usually he has no problems coming up with things to say, but there’s something about the look on Grantaire’s face that’s leaving Enjolras scrambling for thoughts. “Putting people on the spot like that makes it difficult to think,” he complains weakly.

“Alright, I’ll give you that,” Grantaire looks away and Enjolras exhales gently. “Have we got any plans for Bern then?”

“A few things,” Enjolras confirms, tapping his fingers on the backs of his knees. “I put all the stuff for Bern in my bag, so I’ll show you when we get off and there’s more room, but I want to go to the Bear Park and the clock tower in the evening, at least.”

“Not concerned over the captivity of animals and forcing them to parade around on show for humans?” Grantaire cocks a brow, sending a sidelong glance in Enjolras’ direction. “I bet you’re planning to free the bears into the city, aren’t you?”

“The park is free,” Enjolras huffs, ignoring Grantaire’s ridiculous comment, “so our visiting it won’t influence sales or give them any money, not unless we buy something, and the Bear Park underwent renovations to improve the quality for the bears in the late 90s with additional and _larger_ spaces created for the bears around 2009 so it’s not like they’re being kept in a zoo. And I like bears, I want to see some. If you don’t want to come, then feel free not too.”

“You actually did research, didn’t you?” Grantaire shakes his head, laughing and continuing before Enjolras can grumble his reply. “Nah, I’ll come, I’ll never turn down the chance to see some free bears.”

Enjolras groans, reopening his book and unfolding the corner. “You’re impossible.”

“I aim to please.”

***

They get off the train in the middle of Bern, only a few minutes away from the bus that takes them directly to the Bear Park, or _Bärengraben_ as Enjolras soon discovers after speaking to a local who could only just understand his fragments of thickly accented English. He almost resorted to casting aside all shreds of dignity and miming a bear, when Grantaire swooped in and managed to hold a concise and comprehensive conversation with the person better than Enjolras ever expected.

“One of us needed to speak it,” he shrugs when Enjolras asks him how long he was planning on hiding his near-perfect (in Enjolras’ eyes anyway) English.

They arrive at the Bear Park and walk straight in, heading directly to the enclosures to find the optimum bear-viewing spots. It’s all centred around the river Aare, with a long grassy slope leading to the bed and a thin wire fence, that doesn’t look too secure to Enjolras, keeping the bears inside.

Grantaire spots one first, pointing to a thick brown-furred bear plod out from underneath the tree providing it with shade, and into the river where it jumps right in. [It splashes against the surface](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtWDv0B57Ug), chasing after a twig or something similar, creating a huge uproar of waves, before paddling in tight circles away from the steps on to the riverbed.

“Get the camera out,” Enjolras tells Grantaire as the bear ventures further away from the bed, splashing as it goes. “Jehan will kill us if we don’t get this on film.”

There’s a moment of fumbling, finding the camera, taking a few pictures and trying to set it to record before Grantaire’s off, zooming up as close as he can on the bear for a decent shot. Once they’ve got a few minutes of the bear on camera (and if Enjolras hadn’t known better, he’d suspect the bear was playing up for the attention), Grantaire positions Enjolras so that the bear is swimming just behind his shoulder in the river, and takes some more photos, before they reverse.

They spend the rest of the morning and lunchtime in with the bears, buying some sandwiches to eat as they slowly make their way around the circuit. Enjolras digs out the map of Bern he printed off and attempts to walk them to the houses of parliament until Grantaire stops him at a bus stop, next to a couple of hop-on-hop-off sightseeing buses, and picks them up two tickets.

“These are great for getting around the city,” he explains and Enjolras shrugs, accepting the headphones and heading up to the top deck of the bus to snatch the decent front seats before they all go. There’s a slight breeze as he plugs in the headphones and grumbles past the ‘English’ setting and switching it to ‘French’, blowing his hair gently into Grantaire’s face for which he can only laugh at really.

They stay on the bus for the first circuit of the journey, listening to the informative audio plugged into their ears as they travel the city, glad for a chance to rest and a guide to see the sights with, even if they do end up hearing about a particularly interesting fountain when they’re stuck at a red traffic light.

On their second lap, Grantaire taps on Enjolras’ thigh, just above the knee, when they reach the stop for [the houses of parliament](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/45/Bundeshaus_Bern_2009,_Flooffy.jpg) and they get off quickly, before the bus has the chance to drive away, taking them with it.

“It doesn’t look like we can get too close,” Enjolras muses when Grantaire finds them a good spot for taking a picture, one that he’s certain Feuilly will love. The building is impressive, solid stone and looming high above the ground, but Enjolras would much rather be closer and _inside_ it, seeing more than just the exterior, pretty as it may be.

“Probably not without booking something online,” Grantaire says, snapping another photo of Enjolras. “We haven’t got anything booked for any of the cities, have we?”

“No,” Enjolras shakes his head and leans on the cold railings in front of them. “I didn’t look that much into this. I wanted us to have flexibility. We could still try and book some things if you want to, when we’re at the hostel tonight? Your input will be just as valuable as mine is.”

“Nah, flexible suits me just fine.” Grantaire turns the camera and takes a picture of himself and Enjolras, grinning cheesily into the lens. He takes one glance at the picture and winces, only showing it to Enjolras briefly before Enjolras can snatch it away so he doesn’t delete. “So where too now? Back on the bus to get off at more stops, or something else?”

“I think I’d like to head to the hostel to rest for a bit,” Enjolras says. “We’ll be going out again later to see the clock tower anyway so we may as well drop our stuff off and shower and whatnot whilst we can. There’ll be time for more sightseeing tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Grantaire nods, heading off in the direction of the bus stop with Enjolras hurrying to catch him up.

***

There was a reason Enjolras insisted on visiting the clock tower in the evening instead of midday, and it can definitely be attributed to the atmosphere of the plaza where the [tower resides](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/ea/Zytglogge_8643.jpg). They walk from the hostel to the tower after receiving directions from a (thankfully) French speaking staff member, and when they arrive the sky’s dark, illuminated only by the yellow street lamps and warm glow from the shops nearby.

“Not quite so many tourists now,” Enjolras says, sitting down on the stone base of a fountain in direct eye line of the tower.

Grantaire takes the place next to him and leans backwards, resting on his arms to stop himself falling into the water, though Enjolras suspects a nudge at the right moment would knock him straight in. “Just a lot of people on dates.”

Enjolras gives the small groups of people milling about on the cobbled streets a once over, and is surprised to see that Grantaire’s right, most seem to be couples, holding hands and eating ice cream or looking up at the tower in awe. “I guess it is pretty romantic,” Enjolras concedes, ignoring the disbelieving look Grantaire sends his way. “The tower is beautiful, even I can see that. I’m going for a closer look, coming?”

“Nah, I’ll just sit here.” Grantaire’s voice is tight but he waves Enjolras onwards before he has the chance to ask what’s wrong, so Enjolras shrugs and heads closer to the tower.

The cool chill of the night ghosts over his bare skin as he walks, he ends up pulling his cardigan tighter around his waist to ward it off. [The tower is imposingly tall](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a3/Bern_Zytglogge_DSC05156.jpg), Enjolras has to crane his neck to get the full view of it as he stands at the base, but he can’t do that for long otherwise he’ll end up being sick or falling backwards. He studies the face of the clock, the shining gold of the numerals contrasting with the dark background and the inner circles creating the [astronomical measurements](http://www.filmapia.com/sites/default/files/filmapia/pub/place/p503407-Bern-Zytglogge.jpg).

He’s not entirely sure how long he ends up looking at it, captured in the reverie of the building more than he thought he’d be, but he wanders back over to Grantaire eventually, sitting down on the base of the fountain.

“I got some pictures,” Grantaire tells him quietly, the camera dangling by its strap, hooked around Grantaire’s index finger. “Probably not the greatest quality but –”

“I’m sure they’re just fine,” Enjolras says, frowning. “Are you okay? You seem upset about something?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Grantaire says quickly, as if that doesn’t make Enjolras more worried, “believe me I’m fine. Just a bit tired I guess? Early mornings and lots of walking, it does that to you.”

Enjolras hums, still not satisfied but unwilling to push it, not when they’ve been getting on so well for the past few days. An argument could ruin everything, and Enjolras refuses to trigger one because he can’t accept Grantaire’s words as truth. “We’ll head back then, I’m done looking for now.”

They walk back to the hostel, only stopping off for Enjolras to buy a miniature version of the clock tower for when they get back home. There’s not much to do when they get back other than read or sleep, considering the Wi-Fi just leaves them both frustrated when it takes ten minutes to load Google, so that’s what they do, taking the chance to lie in when morning arrives since there’s no early morning train.

The hostel requires them to leave before ten so they’re out at the last second, officially checking out at 09:59 by Grantaire’s phone. The dirty looks were worth it for the extra lie in. Grantaire finds them a café to eat breakfast at, and they spend the day actually hopping on and off the tour buses, glad the tickets they purchased were the 48 hour kind over the 24 hour ones.

Bern is a city Enjolras would visit again, he decides when they find another shop to buy dinner from, finished with sightseeing for the day and ready to rest. The streets aren’t too hard to navigate, he finds, and it helps that no one they’ve asked for directions have sneered at them for the blatantly touristy behaviour.

“So what time’s the train tonight?” Grantaire asks between mouthfuls of a sandwich that Enjolras turned his nose up at straightaway.

Enjolras digs the timetable out of his bag, balancing his water bottle under his arm. “Two thirty-four AM,” he answers, tucking it away before he gets food on it. “It takes about five hours, I think, so we’ll have a full day in Milan before the morning train to Venice.”

“Are we just gonna be hanging out in the train station for a couple of hours then?” Grantaire takes his phone out of his pocket and groans. “It’s only just eight, that’s four and a half hours, Enjolras.”

“I can’t help the time of the trains,” Enjolras huffs, searching the streets for the nearest bus stop. “Come on, at least the station will have seats and shelter in case it rains.”

It doesn’t rain, much to Enjolras’ approval, but the wait for the train is worse than he expected it to be. They start yawning between every other sentence around midnight and give up on conversation all together within the next thirty minutes. Grantaire dozes from one to two, only just remembering to set reminders to email his commissioner in the morning.

Finally, the train arrives and they can get on, pushing their things up into the overhead carriers as soon as they’ve got their places and collapsing into the only slightly uncomfortable seats that Enjolras will gladly accept for the next five hours.

Grantaire is sleeping almost instantly, his head lulling backwards as he drifts off. Enjolras watches him with amusement, he’s so much calmer in sleep, his lips slightly parted and not curved in the usual teasing smile that Enjolras has grown so accustomed to seeing. The train jolts with movement, starting the long journey ahead, and Grantaire tips to the side, his head coming to rest on Enjolras’ shoulder and he shuffles closer unconsciously.

Enjolras takes a deep breath, looking down at Grantaire with wide eyes, and thinks better about waking him up. The curls of his thick hair are soft where they brush his neck, and Grantaire’s just breathing heavily, no snoring, so waking him up would be unfair and probably cruel. Enjolras goes as far as tentatively tilting his head to rest on top of Grantaire’s, relaxing into the back of the chairs and hoping that his face isn’t too pink as he drifts off.

***

They only have one day in Milan, before another early train to Venice, and it’s Grantaire that decides what they should do in that time. He doesn’t tell Enjolras, gives no hints whatsoever, just surprises him with fluent Italian (“My mother’s side of the family is entirely Italian, I had to know it”) when talking to a local, and leading him out of the station and into the city, with a promise that he knows where they’re going.

Where they’re going just happens to be the [Castello Sforzesco grounds](http://www.truemilan.com/wp-content/uploads/castello.jpg), home to twelve mini-museums and archives. The stone buildings surround large patches of grass lined with benches that Enjolras makes a note of in case the visit becomes too much for him and he needs an escape. He’ll try his best to stay entertained for Grantaire’s sake, but an art museum is still an art museum, no matter the country.

“I can see it in your face, you don’t want to be here,” Grantaire breaks off his train of thought, nudging Enjolras’ shoulder. “You can do something else if you want, I don’t mind going by myself.”

“It’s fine, you’ll just have to explain everything to me,” Enjolras assures him, and Grantaire’s face lights up as he says it so maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. “Besides, I can’t leave you, you’re the one that can speak Italian. Any other languages you know that you want to share?”

“Nope, just French, Italian and English,” Grantaire grins, “though I’ve been speaking to Jehan about learning Greek with him. He wants to add another language to his five already.”

“Amazing,” Enjolras says, a little breathlessly, “You’re giving him a run for his money.”

“Nah, if I start learning dead languages like Messapian, then I’ll be getting close to him.”

“How did he even learn that?” Enjolras shakes his head, knowing there won’t be an answer. He’s long since learnt that questioning how Jehan does things gets you nowhere.

“Beats me,” Grantaire shrugs. “I’ll go get us the tickets, be right back.”

Grantaire’s only gone a moment, and they’re early enough that the museums have just opened so they’re some of the first in. He guides Enjolras through the high-ceilinged halls, reading the annotations and inspecting each piece carefully before, true to his word, offering his own opinion and asking about Enjolras’. He rarely has much to say to Grantaire, colour theory and lighting choices mean nothing to him, and though Grantaire’s less knowledgeable here than he was in the museum in Lyon, he’s still just as animated.

They spend hours exploring the mini museums and sitting in the grounds after, too tired and lazy to get up and move. The sun is out and there’s a gentle breeze and Enjolras doesn’t feel like doing anything but curling up on one of the benches next to Grantaire and reading.

It must be around half five when more people are leaving the grounds than entering, and Grantaire’s stomach starts growling so loudly Enjolras thinks someone has snuck a dog in through the gates.

“I think it might be time for us to eat,” Enjolras says with a smile, staring at Grantaire’s belly as it starts growling again, louder than before. “Before your stomach eats itself.”

Grantaire hums, walking with Enjolras out of the grounds and wandering through the streets until they find a café to sit down in. He orders easily in Italian and practically inhales his food when it comes, Enjolras doing the same. Courfeyrac would be lecturing him about three square meals a day, if he were there, and all of a sudden there’s a pang in Enjolras’ gut as he thinks about how much he misses Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“Hey, are you alright?”

Enjolras looks up from his plate, catching sight of Grantaire’s frown, the concern evident in the lines on his face. “Yeah, just missing Combeferre and Courfeyrac. I mean I miss all our friends, but they’ve been away the longest and I just really, _really_ miss them. They’ve always been around, and it’s not like they’re gone forever, just the summer, but not being able to see them or call them when I want to is killing me.”

“Well, they may only be gone for the summer,” Grantaire says slowly, “but you’re on opposite sides of the continent, that’s hardly like they’re just out of town for the summer. It’s a big disconnect, and we all miss them a lot, but everyone can see you’re suffering the most. But think of it this way, every day that passes is a day closer to when you get to see them again.”

“That’s true,” Enjolras nods. “Less than two weeks now, and we’re staying there for a week too.” He fiddles with his fork for a moment before adding, “And you’ll be glad for a change of company, I’m sure.”

“Hey, no negativity like that ‘round the dinner table,” Grantaire snaps with a sharpness that causes Enjolras to startle. “You’re great company, you put up with the whole art museum thing today for hours, you’re just… you’re great company.”

“You said that already,” Enjolras says quietly, praying his cheeks aren’t as pink as he thinks they are. “For the record, I think you’re great company too. It’s one of the reasons I was okay about doing this with you, I know our relationship has been rocky, but you’re a good friend, R, and I’m glad you’re with me.”

Grantaire laughs uneasily, the sound coming out of his throat makes Enjolras think of a strangled cat over a laugh. “This is a lot more emotional than what I signed up for,” he chokes out, reaching into his pocket to count out enough money to cover their order and a little extra, before standing abruptly and gesturing to Enjolras. “You ready?”

“Yeah, of course.” Enjolras slips out of the chair and hurries after Grantaire whilst trying to pull the map and address of the hostel from his bag. “Here, can you figure out how to get us to the hostel. You’ve got a much better chance that I have.”

“I can get us there,” Grantaire promises him. “No problem.”

***

The six AM train from Milan to Venice is just under three hours, so there’s a little time to try and catch up on sleep (which Grantaire does) but Enjolras spends the few hours reading and writing up emails he’ll send to his friends when there’s decent internet.

“So where to today, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks as they step out of the train station and take in the surroundings as well as they can whilst avoiding the crowd. “We better get the sightseeing done fast, looks like bad weather.”

Enjolras looks up to see that Grantaire’s right, there are storm clouds rolling in at an alarming pace, and the air is thick and humid, making it difficult to breathe properly. “St. Mark’s Square,” Enjolras says firmly, “It’s got the Basilica as well as a few other landmarks. I say we head straight there and see how everything goes from that point.”

“Sounds good to me,” Grantaire says but something sounds off, there’s no lightness to Grantaire’s tone that’s usually present. It’s too much to call it enthusiasm or cheer, but Grantaire hasn’t sounded so disinterested for the entire trip.

Enjolras would ask whether something was wrong, the words are on the tip of his tongue, but Grantaire’s face turns carefully blank when he catches Enjolras staring so he decides to leave it for now. “We can either go by boat or walk, the map says,” he tells Grantaire instead, leaning over to show him the tourist map he picked up on their way out.

“We should walk,” Grantaire takes the map from Enjolras and peers closer, “I can get directions if we need them. It’ll be easier this way.”

“Walking it is then,” Enjolras nods and points over to the sign reading _‘uscita’_. “That way.”

The walk that should probably have taken half an hour ends up lasting for 45 minutes because Enjolras can’t be trusted to navigate the streets using his own guesses and the map, and Grantaire hardly says a word, just stops people strolling past and starts speaking so quickly Enjolras doesn’t think he could keep up even if he was fluent in Italian. By the time they reach the square, the air is suffocating Enjolras and all he wants is to lay down in a bed that doesn’t get rented out to a different person every night.

Instinctively, they start a [slow lap around the square as soon as they enter](http://famouswonders.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/st-mark-square.jpg), Enjolras taking pictures of the buildings here and there, admiring the architecture as best he can, and sneering at the Napoleonic additions.

“You know some people think that it’s actually Alexander the Great’s bones that were brought here instead of Saint Mark’s,” Grantaire offers half-heartedly as they draw nearer the Basilica. “Probably a load of rubbish but it was on the National Geographic channel so…”

“Hey, R,” Enjolras stops, catching Grantaire’s forearm, “are you okay? If there’s something wrong you can tell me, you know, I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.”

“It’s nothing, Enjolras,” Grantaire tries to smile but he just looks pained and Enjolras’ heart _aches_. “Let’s go in, alright?”

“No, R,” Enjolras tightens his hold on Grantaire’s arm, stopping him walking out of this conversation. “There’s something off, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, but don’t pretend it’s nothing.”

“I’m not pretending, Enjolras,” Grantaire sighs and now there’s a hint of anger in his voice. Enjolras knows he’s been pushing boundaries and if they were in any other situation he’d stop and let Grantaire be, but it’s not like they’ve got a lot of options here. “Let it go.”

“No, Grantaire, if you want we can go straight to the hostel for a little bit, or however long you want, or we could find somewhere quiet to sit down, like a café maybe?” Enjolras scrambles for ideas to suggest, tugging at threads in his mind that just unravel as he draws blanks.

“Enjolras, just stop!” Grantaire snaps, wrenching his arm out of Enjolras’ grasp. “Stop trying to coddle me and find out what’s wrong, it’s none of your business okay? Just leave it the fuck alone.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Enjolras snaps back, clenching his fists by his side. “I’m just trying to help. You’re clearly upset by something and I’m trying to be a good friend by talking to you or finding alternatives to you wallowing in your misery!”

“Good friends listen to each other, Enjolras. I told you to drop it but you kept pushing it and that’s not how it’s meant to go. You can’t fix everything and you won’t even come close to understanding so just leave it.”

“How do you know that?” Enjolras seethes. He wishes he could leave it and things could go back to normal but he can’t, he just _can’t_ , not when Grantaire’s like this. “How could you possibly know that when you won’t tell me?”

“That’s not the point!” Grantaire’s face is burning red and his eyes are wild, there’s more life in him now than there has been all morning. “We’re not that close, okay Enjolras? We’re just not. You don’t have to pretend that you care –”

“I’m not pretending!”

“—and act like we’re suddenly best of friends because we’ve spent a few days together—”

“We are friends!”

“—and pry into everything and why can’t you just drop this, Enjolras?” Grantaire’s chest is heaving and Enjolras stares, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, until he can find his voice again.

“Because,” he starts, carefully thinking through each word. “Because you are important to me, Grantaire. You’re my friend, yes, we’re friends, and I want you to be happy and if something is bothering you I want you to talk to me about it, or at least let me _try_ and help you.”

“It’s not your problem.” Grantaire turns sharply, raking his hand through his thick curls and Enjolras is helpless to do anything but watch. “You need to leave it alone, and leave me alone too.”

“What? Grantaire!”

Enjolras is glued to the spot as Grantaire stalks off, faster than he can process, until he’s hidden in the crowd and Enjolras can’t see him anymore. His heart beats hard in his chest, enough that he can hear his pulse thrumming in his head, and Grantaire is _gone_.

He’s gone and Enjolras can’t guess where he could be, there are hundreds of different ways he could have left, a thousand places in Venice he could end up in, and the longer Enjolras stands there the less chance he has of finding him but Enjolras _can’t move_.

Something wet trickles down Enjolras’ cheeks, and for a second he thinks he’s crying, but heavy droplets of rain pour from the sky, from drizzle to torrential in seconds, spurring Enjolras into motion.

He digs his phone from his shorts pocket (internally cursing himself for picking _shorts_ , if Grantaire doesn’t kill him, pneumonia might) and rings Grantaire. It rings and rings, but there’s no answer, directing him through to voicemail instead. He rambles for a moment, hurrying to get the details for Venice out of his bag so he can read off the address of the hostel and time for their next train to Grantaire. He sends the information in a text as well, for good measure.

Enjolras can’t keep the map out in the open for too long, the rain will destroy it. He tries to think logically, he needs to get to the hostel and check in, ideally before Grantaire does so Grantaire can actually get to their dorm, and sightseeing now would be a waste of time. Maybe he can pick up an umbrella on the way.

The map isn’t telling him anything, he can’t even find the hostel’s street on there, let alone trace a route, so he puts it away and takes a deep breath. There’s still a few people in the square, most with the foresight to bring an umbrella, and Enjolras supposes he could try and find someone who can speak English and possibly even French, though the odds of that are slim. He takes another sweep of the area and spots a small café that looks like it might have a Wi-Fi sign in the front.

It does, and Enjolras gets the password with a cup of coffee, finding a single empty seat at the side of the room where he dumps his bag and pulls out his phone. As soon as he can, he logs on to the internet and goes straight to Google maps, getting directions from the café to the hostel and waiting for the results to load.

He stays at the café long enough to finish his drink, before following the directions to the Grand Canal where he’ll need to catch the boat across and walk along the bank. The rain continues to pour from the sky as he travels, and by the time he’s checked in to the hostel and heading straight to the shower, he’s utterly miserable and shaking like a leaf.

The hot shower helps him feel a little more human, and eases some of the tension building up in his muscles. It’s not enough to stop him worrying, but when he’s curled up in the bed and trying to concentrate on reading his book, it’s something.

The trouble is he can’t concentrate though, because all he can hear is the sound of heavy rain pattering against the roof of the dorm, filling his mind with images of Grantaire lost in the rain, cowering on the corner of some street. It’s completely irrational, Enjolras knows, Grantaire’s more than capable to navigate Venice, he can speak the language for a start, and he’s got enough sense to get out of the rain.

He’s just about calmed himself down and goes back to trying to read when a crack of thunder booms above him, startling him enough that he drops his book. Grantaire hates storms, is his first thought as a flash of lightning illuminates the dorm. He could be anywhere right now, completely vulnerable and scared out of his mind and –

The dorm’s door creaks and Enjolras snaps his head up to see Grantaire, thoroughly soaked and trembling on the spot, step through, shutting the door tightly behind him. Enjolras leaps out of his bed, scrambling over to Grantaire and pulling him further into the room, leaving a damp trail in his wake.

“Get to the shower,” Enjolras says sharply before Grantaire can even open his mouth. “Don’t argue, just do it. We can talk when you’re out and not ice cold. Christ R, how long were you out there? No, wait, just shower.”

Grantaire takes his bag of toiletries from his rucksack, handing the latter to Enjolras, and hurries off into the shared bathroom. He’s in there for longer than Enjolras was, the water running all the while until Enjolras suspects he only left because he was at risk of permanently pruning. When he does return, Enjolras wraps the duvet from Grantaire’s bed around his shoulders and guides him on to the lower bunk.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says right in time for another clap of thunder to echo through the building. Grantaire’s fists clench in the fabric, and Enjolras gathers him into a hug, smoothing his fingers over Grantaire’s damp hair. “R, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk to me when it was obvious that’s not what you wanted. I should have respected that and left it alone, I’m sorry I didn’t. But you must believe that we’re friends and that I care about you, I wasn’t lying or pretending in the slightest.”

“I know,” Grantaire whispers, his voice hoarse. He relaxes into Enjolras’ embrace, burying his head in Enjolras’ shoulder. “I know, and I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to snap, but I did and you didn’t deserve it. I’m so sorry for leaving you too, God, Enjolras, I shouldn’t have just left like that. Thanks for leaving the address, I was worried you were so pissed you were gonna just move on without me.”

“Grantaire, I’d never, _ever_ do that,” Enjolras assures him, moving one hand to rub his back through the duvet. Another crack of thunder with a longer stretch of time before the lightning; the storm’s moving away. “I’m so glad you found your way here, I was terrified you wouldn’t make it or just wouldn’t come.”

Grantaire sighs into his shoulder, and Enjolras grabs his own duvet to wrap around them both, sharing the heat between them. “I had to come, there’s a bed for me here,” Grantaire jokes, a hesitant smile playing at his lips and Enjolras beams in response.

“Take a nap then,” he says, expecting Grantaire to slip off his bed and return to his own, but he just shuffles closer to Enjolras and lets his eyes fall shut. He’s asleep almost instantly, leaving Enjolras in awe of how little time it takes for Grantaire to do that.

Still, before he might have taken Grantaire’s bed, or just moved away, but Enjolras can’t find it in himself to do so. He simply adjusts their position so they’re at least lying on the cramped bed and shuts his own eyes, listening to Grantaire’s deep breathing as he drifts off.

***

Enjolras wakes up relatively late in the morning. According to the time on his phone it’s still earlier than ten, so earlier than he’d prefer, but it’s later than the usual six am starts. He alternated between sleeping and reading since Grantaire crashed on his bed, and is surprisingly pleased to see that when he opens his eyes blearily, Grantaire’s still there, curled up under his duvet and reading Enjolras’ book.

It’s not quite enough to distract him from his sudden difficulty breathing through his nose, or the soreness in his throat however, and he can only blame himself for not being more prepared for rain.

“Morning,” Grantaire croaks, sounding as miserable as Enjolras feels. “Please tell me we don’t have to vacate before a certain time today? I don’t think I can handle moving.”

It takes a moment for his fuzzy, sleep-addled brain to come up with an answer, and when he does it’s not one he was looking forward to. “Have to be gone by ten,” he says, burying his face in his pillow. “It’s near enough half nine now.”

“Do you think that if we just lay here and don’t move, they’ll have to let us stay longer?”

Enjolras entertains the idea. Staying in the warm bed and napping sounds infinitely more preferable than wandering around Venice with an armful of tissues. “If we promise to pay them for another night and they haven’t got another booking, sure.”

“We’re gonna have to get up now, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Enjolras groans, Grantaire joining in a moment after when Enjolras rolls away, dragging both of their duvets with him. “Come on, come on, if I have to get up so do you.”

They make it out just on time, getting directions to a decent supermarket on the opposite side of the [Grand Canal](http://www.shedexpedition.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/From-Venice-bridge-grand-canal.jpg) where they can buy tissues, cold medicine and breakfast. At least the weather is much warmer, Enjolras thinks as they wander the streets looking for something to do, it’s unlikely to rain and the sun beats down on their bare skin.

By some miracle, or maybe Grantaire’s guidance, they end up back in St. Mark’s Square and finally get the chance to visit the [Basilica](http://famouswonders.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/st-marks-basilica.jpg). Grantaire’ much more enthusiastic about it, to Enjolras’ delight, and they end up spending a few hours within it and the square alone.

“The train’s at midnight,” Enjolras says when they’re crossing over the [Rialto Bridge](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b1/Venice_-_Rialto_Bridge_-_01.jpg), hoping to find somewhere to stop and sit for lunch. “What do you want to do for the next few hours then?”

“Shit we’ve got eight hours to kill,” Grantaire whistles. “Okay, find a café first and maybe look for something there.”

There’s a simple internet café within walking distance from them, which is where they spend the rest of the afternoon, eating lunch and arguing over whether Enjolras’ current book is worth him reading.

“It’s rubbish,” Grantaire insists, jabbing his finger at the cover and leaning nearly half-way across their table. “The system of magic is completely unrealistic, I know, I read like half of it this morning –”

“You skimmed it!”

“—same difference, but it’s still unrealistic and boring. Even you have to admit the tropes in this book are a giant cliché and can be found in like, a billion other novels.”

“True,” Enjolras concedes, “and the romance subplot is so overwhelmingly heteronormative it makes me a little sick sometimes –” Grantaire cheers, almost knocking his glass over “—but I’m enjoying it despite all that, so it’s worth reading.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Grantaire hums with a smile on his face, changing the topic to a story from an Italian newspaper he picked up that he reads out to Enjolras.

Their evening is spent in much the same way, debating and walking around Venice, trailing the length of the Grand Canal and back again, despite the awful smell that really wasn’t exaggerated, so that when they finally head to the train station, it’s nightfall and they’re both ready to collapse.

“Here,” Enjolras hands Grantaire another pack of tissues as he puts the empty package of his last in his pocket, sprawling on the tiny bed in the sleeper car.

Grantaire buries his face in the thin mattress and breathes deeply, as if he’s smelling fresh air for the first time in days. “Thank God you got us beds.”

“It’s a night train,” Enjolras sits on his own bed, tucking his legs under himself, “most people get beds, plus these are just the standard. Nothing particularly fancy about them.”

“Are you kidding me?” Grantaire stares open-mouthed at Enjolras comically, his face smushed into the pillow. “I don’t have to sleep sitting up, this is the best.”

“Glad to have been a service –” the train lurches into motion, rocking the carriages and causing Enjolras to tumble forwards, whipping out his arm last minute to catch Grantaire’s outstretched hand. He doesn’t fall completely, saving them a trip to find a doctor, but ends up leaning forwards and clinging to Grantaire’s hand for dear life. “Oh, uh, thank you for that,” he laughs nervously, letting Grantaire’s hand go and straightening up, pressing himself against the compartment door.

“I’m gonna go hit up the bathroom,” Grantaire says, shakily getting off the bed to grab his toiletries. “Try and sleep, okay, you look like you need it.”

Enjolras nods, not bothering to tuck himself into his own bed just yet, he needs to clean his teeth and whatnot first, but the sincerity in Grantaire’s tone makes him pause and smile giddily to himself as he waits.

***

They arrive in Munich on time, too early for Enjolras’ liking but his head isn’t quite so stuffy and the sun is shining, so it’s not all bad. It’s not so humid outside like it was in Italy, and Enjolras has a good feeling about today. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is exactly, but he beams at Grantaire when they pick up breakfast from a café on the outskirts of the train station, and when Grantaire smiles back he’s even happier.

“We should stay here for a bit, before we head off for the day,” Enjolras suggests, picking at the pastry he bought, the thought of eating something with cinnamon on for the first time in a week was too great for him to resist. “Plan out what we’ll do to save us time later, plus we can map it out so that we don’t have to backtrack a hundred times.”

Grantaire nods, tapping his fingers on the wooden table. Enjolras never realised how much Grantaire fidgets until this trip; he’s always tapping his fingers or shaking his legs or chewing his lip. He’s never still for a moment. “You’ve got some ideas in mind?” he asks, “On where to visit?”

Enjolras pulls out the map of Munich he picked up from the station, spreading it out as best he can on the table. He’s fishes a pen from his bag, circling a few destinations he knows where to look for, the Marienplatz and New Town Hall being the easiest to spot, and Grantaire highlights a few more, the Church of St. Johann Nepomunk and the English Park. From there it’s easy enough to map the route between the sites, and Enjolras is mentally kicking himself for not doing this before.

The Church is their first stop, only twenty minutes from the café, and Grantaire’s face visibly lights up when he sees it. Even Enjolras can recognise it’s a [beautiful building](http://static.panoramio.com/photos/large/58218810.jpg). There are statues decorating the face of the off-white stone, allowing the Church to come to life, and the archway over the entrance frames it perfectly. Before they go in, Grantaire spends the few minutes Enjolras needs to take pictures to run his hands across the marble of the columns.

[The inside is even more gorgeous](http://cdnfiles.hdrcreme.com/49522/medium/asamkirche-st-johann-nepomuk-munich-germany.jpg?1361787023), colour everywhere, art decorating the ceiling and walls, gold framing glass cases, filled with statues of the Virgin Mary, or candles delicately positioned next to crucifixes. But Enjolras keeps most of his attention on Grantaire, rapt as he takes in the beauty of the church.

When Enjolras finally manages to drag Grantaire out of the church, they head down to the [Marienplatz](http://www.santegidio.org/immagini/varie/marienplatz.jpg), only a short walk away. It’s a little crowded, the way most plazas tend to be, Enjolras has found, but they’re still able to do a circuit around the square and take pictures of both the [New Town Hall](http://www.layoverguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/New-Town-Hall-in-Munich.jpg) and the statue in the centre.

“I think this would be amazing at Christmas,” Enjolras sighs wistfully, taking a last, long look at the plaza as they head out towards the English Garden for somewhere to sit and eat lunch. “A huge tree in the middle, lights everywhere. Maybe snow falling too.”

“You should come back,” Grantaire smiles softly at Enjolras, brushing some curls out of his face, “in the winter, take a train from Paris to Munich and visit the city during late December. It’s doable.”

“Would you come with me?” Enjolras asks, thinking the idea over. It’s sounding more and more appealing by the second, he could come back, spend a few nights with Grantaire and probably some of the other Amis too. Feuilly and Bossuet rarely go home for Christmas, he’s certain they wouldn’t be opposed to it, nor would Combeferre or Courfeyrac. They could make a group trip of it.

“You’d invite me?” Grantaire sounds far too shocked for Enjolras’ liking. Sure, Venice was a little bit of a disaster but Enjolras has had such a great time in the other cities, and that’s all been largely down to Grantaire’s presence just as much as it’s down to the cities themselves.

“Of course,” Enjolras says firmly, taking Grantaire’s hands and squeezing them tightly. They’re rough against his palms and a little warm, but they fit perfectly and Enjolras needs to stop thinking about Grantaire’s hands and let them go before he holds on forever. “I’m so glad you came with me, and if I do end up coming back here for Christmas, I’d love for you to come with me. If you want to, that is.”

Grantaire smiles again, that soft smile that Enjolras likes to see just as much as the one Grantaire wears when he teases Enjolras, or the smirk that tugs at his lips when he’s being contradictory for the sake of it and enjoying every second. “That’d be great, of course I’d love to come.”

“Christmas plans sorted then,” Enjolras laughs.

“Only seven months too early.”

The [English Park](http://www.ikt2014.org/fileadmin/ikt2014.org/assets/50_Muenchen_-_Sehenswertes/Spaziergang_durch_Muenchen/Muenchen-Sehenswertes-Bild-im-Text-3.jpg) is enormous, as it turns out, and they decide to sit and eat lunch in the café that overlooks the park before venturing in (and giving their feet a chance to rest is something that Enjolras will always be willing to do).

When they do start to walk, it ends with Grantaire insisting they sit down under a tree for a bit, and since he picked a shady spot with a cool breeze, Enjolras isn’t complaining. He falls asleep within moments and Enjolras laughs fondly, watching the wind slide through Grantaire’s hair, ruffling it to the point where he may as well have just run his hands through it anyway. Enjolras takes the chance to read for a while, letting Grantaire nap in peace.

They head to the hostel then, close enough to the park that it’s an easy walk. Their train to Vienna doesn’t leave until eleven the next morning, so there’s no early nights leading to early mornings, to both their delight, and Grantaire insists on teaching Enjolras to play cards to pass the time in the evening.

“It’s really easy, okay,” Grantaire says, dealing out seven cards each on the cover of his duvet, both of them sitting cross-legged on the top bunk. “Ever played Uno? Just like that, you’ve got to get rid of your cards by putting them down in the middle, but you can only play a card that’s the same suit or the same number as the card on top. So like, there’s a five of hearts down, you could play another heart or a five of clubs, and if you have two or more fives, you could play them all. But there are some cards with additional rules, like two means you pick up two cards, eight miss a go, Jack change suit, seven change direction.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen the longer Grantaire talks, struggling to remember all the information. “And if I can’t go?” he squeaks.

“You pick up a card,” Grantaire answers with an easy smile. “Oh, and when you’re on your last card, you’ve got to say last card. Otherwise it’s all null and void.”

“Okay, I think I’ve got it,” Enjolras says, nowhere near as certain as he’d like to be. “I’ll go first.”

Enjolras starts to pick it up after the third game, losing with less frequency and shouting triumphantly whenever he does manage to beat Grantaire. They start a simple betting pool, taking a look at their hand and betting favours as chips. Grantaire wins a free cup of coffee to be bought by Enjolras, and Enjolras ends up with a promise that Grantaire will knit him a hat for the winter, and the window seat on one train ride before the trip is up.

He claims the window seat on their next train, a late morning one to Vienna that’ll get them there sometime in the afternoon, probably around half four if Enjolras’ watch is correct. He’s not sure it is, keeping up with the different time zones for different countries gets confusing.

“We should eat out tonight,” Enjolras says, causing Grantaire to lift his head from Enjolras’ book (and Enjolras is filled with a sense of satisfaction at seeing that).

“Any reason why?” Grantaire asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Not that I’m opposed, you know, happy to eat out, but it’s a little unexpected.”

Enjolras shrugs, “We’ve only be eating at cafés and the hostels so far, so why not go out? We’ve got a hotel for tonight as well so we could go straight there after the train arrives, plan our day for tomorrow, and then head out to a restaurant whenever we’re hungry.”

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of some formal thing because I know I don’t have anything resembling a suit in this bag.”

Enjolras absolutely doesn’t dwell on the image of Grantaire in a suit, a jacket highlighting the broadness of his shoulders. Maybe he’d shave but Enjolras would prefer it if Grantaire kept his usual stubble… No, he’s not thinking about that at all. “It’ll be casual,” he laughs, his throat a little dry. “The only think I brought that isn’t shorts or a vest is my sundress. It won’t be like a black tie thing, don’t worry.”

It’s a short walk to the hotel, just long enough for them to see some of the city’s renowned architecture, before Grantaire’s checking them in with the hotel concierge. They’re on the third floor, electing to take their bags up in the lift because if there’s one thing Enjolras does not want to do, it’s carry his heavy rucksack up three full flights of stairs.

Their room is nice enough, the hotel isn’t particularly fancy but it’s not like they need that, a bathroom and bed is all they require, but therein lies the problem. There’s a bed. One. A double yes, large enough to fit them both in if they’re close, but it’s only _one_ bed.

“We’ve got a problem,” Grantaire says, his voice cracking on the last word. “You booked two beds right?”

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember booking the rooms, but he booked all the accommodation over two days, it starts to blur after the fourth city. “I thought I did, single room with two beds, it should be two singles? We could check with reception but,” he pauses, biting his bottom lip, “we shared in Venice, so it’s not like it’s the end of the world? What do you think?”

Grantaire’s silent for a long moment, and Enjolras considers the possibility that he’ll say no. Somehow that thought is more unbearable than spending the night in the same bed as Grantaire, but Enjolras doesn’t have the time to look too closely at the line of reasoning.

 “I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it,” Grantaire says firmly. His expression isn’t giving Enjolras much to read, but he sounds like he means it.

“Are you absolutely sure?” he doesn’t want to force Grantaire into this and have him decide early hours in the morning that he’s changed his mind, not wanting to be anywhere near Enjolras.

“Yeah, if you’ve got no problem, I’m okay to share.” Grantaire nods. “Are you really sure though, I know I’m not the easiest to sleep with – I mean share a bed with but, you’re okay with it?”

Enjolras laughs, their conversation is just spinning in circles now. “Yes, R, I’m sure. We’re both okay with it? Good, but we can still go get some recommendations from the concierge for dinner, right?”

Grantaire goes to speak to the reception whilst Enjolras showers, and does some research on Vienna with the hotel’s when Grantaire returns. They end up playing more cards to kill the time before they leave for dinner, deciding to go later on in the evening.

Enjolras has to resist the absurd urge to reach out and hold Grantaire’s hand as they walk to the restaurant, his sundress floating around his legs in the breeze. He chalks it up to the atmosphere; the sun is beginning to set and it feels like summer is in full bloom, so what if he wants to hold Grantaire’s hand?

A waitress sits them outside the restaurant, their table for two under a large awning with the sun’s rays shining underneath and bouncing off Enjolras’ hair. He was right when he said it wasn’t black tie, couples and families are spread out everywhere, dressed from jeans and t-shirts, to shirts and trousers. They don’t stick out at all.

Another waitress comes and collects their order, smiling friendly and adding, “For couples, there’s a discount on sharable deserts, if you’d like to order some after your meals,” before shooting off to another table.

Enjolras blushes furiously, the word couple echoing through his mind. Do they look like a couple? He supposes it’s not unlikely, they’re eating out on a Friday evening, and they’re clearly tourists, but friends do that all the time. There must be something that suggested a romantic relationship between them to her, the way they look at each other? Enjolras _has_ been looking at Grantaire more, noticing more things about him, and it’s not like he’s unpleasant to look at, the opposite really. Enjolras likes it when he smiles, the soft kind of smile, and especially when he laughs, but when his face is relaxed, like when he’s reading Enjolras’ “shitty book”, there’s something enchanting about his face, Enjolras can’t stop watching.

“You look like you’re having an identity crisis,” Grantaire’s voice cuts straight through Enjolras’ thoughts, his eyes snapping up to meet Grantaire’s instinctively. “It was a mistake, no need to panic, and besides, discounted desert, worth the embarrassing lie just for that, right?”

Enjolras frowns, “It wouldn’t be embarrassing –” he stops abruptly, thinking carefully about what he was going to say. It wouldn’t be embarrassing being in a relationship with Grantaire, not at all. But that’s a thought that Enjolras won’t deal with right now, so he brushes the lose strands of hair out of his face. “I doubt we’ll have to do much to convince her if she already thinks we’re dating, so why not?”

Enjolras takes the opportunity to hold Grantaire’s hand as they talk and wait for the meal, a pleased smile crossing his face when Grantaire’s eyes light up at seeing their hands joined. He has to let go when their food comes, the proper meal hot in front of them and not from a café is only just worth it. Conversation slows as they eat, only picking back up when it comes to choosing one of the sharable desserts.

“We should get that one,” Enjolras points to the picture of an ice-cream sundae covered in chunks of brownie, pieces of fudge, chocolate buttons, and a whole load of other tooth-rottingly sweet toppings.

Grantaire lifts his brows, staring at Enjolras, then the dessert, and laughing sharply. “I’m sorry, are you twelve? That’ll give you the biggest sugar rush ever.”

Enjolras shrugs, having embraced his sweet tooth long ago, and taps the picture again. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t share this with me?”

When Grantaire sighs Enjolras knows he’s won, so when the waitress returns Enjolras places the order and he’s only a little smug.

Sharing the dessert proves more difficult than Enjolras expected, not because he tries to eat it all, but because Grantaire likes chocolate more than he let on. The whole thing is demolished in mere minutes, with them both fighting over the last piece of fudge at the bottom of the glass.

“This was a good night,” Grantaire says as they walk back to their hotel. The night’s still young but the sky is dark and they’ll have time to wander tomorrow, for now they’re both tired enough that sleep sounds wonderful. “Thanks for pushing for it.”

“I didn’t do much pushing,” Enjolras points out, glancing at Grantaire out of the corner of his eye. “You weren’t exactly opposed to the idea, but I’m happy you agreed. We should do it more often.”

Grantaire’s quiet as they head up the stairs to their room, following the signs to the correct door. “You can use the bathroom first,” he says finally, grabbing his bag from next to the bed and pulling out his laptop and tablet.

Enjolras nods, only bothering to get his pyjamas, toothbrush and toothpaste out of his bag, fully intending on using the complimentary shampoo, conditioner and body wash the hotel provides. His shower is long and glorious, so much better than the hostel showers, leaving his limbs loose and languid, and his hair smelling like vanilla.

“You’re good to use it now,” he says, stepping out of the bathroom and towel drying his hair with on hand, his other clutching his sundress, a little damp from the steam of the bathroom. “Oh, you’re drawing?”

Grantaire looks up from his tablet and laptop, set up as best he can on the left side of the bed, a sharp exhale leaving his lips when he catches sight of Enjolras. “Commission deadline coming up,” he explains, his fingers tapping the back of the tablet, “Sketching out the last few panels now.”

“A comic?” Enjolras sits on the opposite side of the bed, shuffling closer to Grantaire to peer over his shoulder, catching glimpses of the drawing before Grantaire switches window, turning to frown at Enjolras.

“No looking until it’s done, if you really want to see it,” he says, the tone of his voice telling Enjolras that he’s serious and no amount of coercing will change that.

“I’ll wait,” Enjolras promises, shuffling away and rifling through his things for his laptop, pulling it out and booting it up. “What’s the comic for? At least grant me that.”

“A short fantasy thing for a children’s magazine,” Grantaire goes for nonchalance, but Enjolras can hear the excitement lacing his voice. “They said they saw my illustrations from a children’s book a while ago, and asked me to do this. The book wasn’t massively successful so I really didn’t think anything would come of it but here we are, I guess.”

A comfortable silence falls on them, Enjolras catches up with Combeferre and Courfeyrac on Skype, making plans for when they arrive, only a few days now. He updates them on the trip so far, skimming over the Venice incident, and paying particular attention to Munich, mentioning Grantaire’s suggestion about coming back for Christmas, which they’re both open to.

By the time his vision is blurring and he’s yawning every other minute, Grantaire has showered and changed for bed, putting his things away and climbing under the duvet. Enjolras follows his lead, only just remembering to flick the lights off before he’s trying not to hog the covers too much but it’s hard when he’s so unused to sharing.

“Goodnight, R,” he murmurs, burying his face in the pillow, entirely conscious of Grantaire’s body, less than a foot away from him. He could roll over and curl his arms around Grantaire so easily, tucking his head over Grantaire’s broad shoulders, twining their legs together and locking them in place. Enjolras squashes the thoughts as best as he can, counting his breaths instead.

“Night, Enjolras,” comes Grantaire’s gruff reply, and there’s something satisfying in the knowledge that Enjolras isn’t the only one affected by this.

Sleep doesn’t come easy to either of them, or so it seems, judging by Grantaire’s carefully measured breaths that Enjolras can’t stop concentrating on, no matter how hard he tries to switch his attention to his own. It must be near two AM when Grantaire drifts off, not even closely followed by Enjolras, who nearly curls up against Grantaire’s back at least three times. It’s too dark and he’s too tired to be making rational decisions.

At some point he must fall asleep, because when he next opens his eyes, it’s light and his face is buried in Grantaire’s shoulder. He panics, his limbs frozen in place as Grantaire keeps sleeping underneath him, totally oblivious to the fact that at some point during the night Enjolras glued himself to Grantaire’s side, his head on Grantaire’s chest, his arms around Grantaire’s waist.

He tries to slowly disentangle himself, he really does, but the movement has Grantaire sighing in his sleep, low noises that stir heat in Enjolras’ belly. He _really_ needs to get out of this bed before Grantaire wakes up and catches him in his compromising position, since his body can’t seem to _not_ react to those noises and the proximity and the fact that Enjolras’ hips are pressed against one of Grantaire’s thighs. Getting hard just from sleeping in the same bed as your close friend is entirely inappropriate and _so_ not how Enjolras wants to start the day.

By some miracle, he manages to slip out of the bed and straight into the bathroom, stripping off his pyjamas and hopping into the shower, as if he can wash the shame straight from his body. He scrubs himself down, keeping his thoughts entirely innocent – or as innocent as he can make them, and finishes quickly, stepping on to the mat and drying off.

Grantaire’s just waking up as he leaves the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his fist clenching the fabric to hold it up as he scrambles for his clothes with the other. Grantaire averts his eyes as Enjolras dresses as fast as he can, only a brief exchange of “Morning,” and Grantaire’s hurrying into the bathroom and the shower’s running again.

Their first stop for the day is the [_Kunsthistorisches_](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/00/Maria-Theresien-Platz_Kunsthistorisches_Museum_Wien_2010.jpg), somewhere Grantaire has always wanted to visit, he tells Enjolras as they walk there, stopping off only briefly for breakfast. Grantaire’s done enough research on the museum that they enter with ease, Enjolras following Grantaire around the rooms to specific sections, listening to him talk animatedly about anything and everything for most of the morning.

They walk through the [Heldenplatz](http://www.city-walks.info/Wien/bilder/Heldenplatz-Blick-Hofburg.JPG) to the [Hofburg Palace](http://travelioo.com/img/Hofburg-Palace-Photo4.jpg), wandering round the courtyard before venturing in, taking pictures as they go. Enjolras grumbles about the glorification of the monarchy, until Grantaire reminds him that none of the money tourists bring in actually goes to the monarchy since they don’t exist anymore, sparking a discussion about the change between monarchy and republic of Austria in 1918 during which Grantaire purposely avoids egging Enjolras on for once, engaging in genuine discussion. That thread of conversation spirals into a debate on the revolutions across Europe around that time and just before, taking them through [St. Stephen’s Cathedral](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/70/0181-0183a_-_Wien_-_Stephansdom.jpg) and lunch in the Stephenplatz.

“Do you think we have enough to time to ride the Ferris wheel before we catch the train to Budapest?” Grantaire asks as they walk along the bank of the Danube River, heading towards the Riesenradplatz where they were recommended to visit the Ferris wheel. “It’s this evening, right?”

Enjolras nods, snapping a picture of a boat sailing along the river, “Quarter past eight, and it’s near enough five right? We can make it and still manage dinner, I think. Though walking back to the station might take a while if we’re this slow.”

“I’ll speed walk for the sake of a Ferris wheel,” Grantaire says with such dedication Enjolras can only laugh.

Getting on the [Ferris wheel](http://www.knichale.de/images/gallery/photorei/DSS0793.jpg) is easy enough, it’s only a couple of euro and the queue goes down steadily. Four large windows line the walls of the car, and Enjolras is glued to the glass, glimpsing more of Vienna as the slowly travel up.

“Everything’s so small,” Grantaire breathes as they reach the top, shuddering to a halt. “Shit, look at the river.”

The early evening sun shines on the Danube River so it glitters like it’s made of gems, stretching for miles and miles. It’s a gorgeous view, undoubtedly, the city so full of life beneath them.

“Shouldn’t we be moving right now?” Enjolras voices after a few moments of admiring the view. “You don’t think we’re –”

A tannoy crackles and there’s a man mumbling something in Austrian German, then repeating it in heavily accented English. Enjolras catches enough of the repetition to know they are stuck, for how long though, he has no idea.

“I didn’t think Ferris wheels actually got stuck,” Grantaire laughs, shaking his head and sitting down on one of the car’s red seats, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like something out of a rom-com.”

“In that case we need something dramatic to confess.” Enjolras takes the seat next to Grantaire, the close confinements meaning their legs are pressed together. “Now is when you’d tell me you once killed a man and I forgive you whilst crying.”

“What the fuck kind of rom-coms have you been watching?” Grantaire stares at Enjolras with a look of mild horror on his face. “The confessions are more along the lines of one of us being in love with the other since the moment we met and there’s awkward close ups and kissing.”

“Oh,” Enjolras’ eyes burn holes in the floor as he tries not to imagine them in some passionate embrace straight out of a cheesy film. Thankfully, the car jerks back into motion, and they’re soon off the Ferris wheel with something else to talk about, namely, what they want for dinner.

***

Budapest is only a few hours on the train from Vienna, so they’ll arrive in time to go straight to the hostel and crash. They don’t talk much on the way, Grantaire commandeers most of the space to work more on the commission, but from Enjolras’ glances across that he can’t seem to help, it doesn’t look like Grantaire’s getting far. More frustrated scribbling than progress.

They manage to catch one of the last buses on the evening when they arrive, taking it almost straight from the train station to their hostel, checking in and heading straight for the beds. Sleep comes easy, thank goodness, but even the full night isn’t enough when his alarm blares the next morning, waking him up with enough time to plan their day and leave the hostel on time.

“Was an alarm that loud really necessary?” Grantaire groans as Enjolras fumbles with his phone, trying to shut the damn thing off. Enjolras manages to turn it off with a triumphant shout, tossing his phone to the side and flopping back on to the bed.

“We’re up though,” he says, rifling through his things for a map of Budapest, paling slightly as he stares at the streets, complex and entirely foreign. “Where do you want to go, R? I’ve heard the Hősök tere is worth the visit.”

Grantaire groans again, shuffling around on the bunk above until his head is hanging over the side and he can look apologetically at Enjolras. “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to finish off this commission by tonight _and_ go sightseeing. There isn’t much left to do but I’ll need the whole day just in case, you know?”

“Oh, of course,” Enjolras fidgets with the edges of the map as he speaks, running his fingers over intricate streets. “Where will you go?”

“I was thinking I’d just hang out in a café near the train station,” Grantaire explains as the blood rushes to his face, turning his skin an alarming shade of red. “We could head there together so you know where I am, and then when you’re finished in the city you can hook back and pick me up. What do you think?”

“Sure,” Enjolras agrees. It’s a good plan, it’ll work well, and Enjolras can handle one day in the city by himself. Grantaire needs the time to draw without distraction; no matter how much Enjolras wishes Grantaire could join him, it just can’t happen. “Let me know when you’re ready to leave, and we’ll go, yeah?”

***

Enjolras stays at the café with Grantaire just long enough to get his route marked out on the map, before embarking into the city. Walking is easier than trying to use public transport, he figures, and sets off to [Heroes’ Square](http://budapest.varosom.hu/upload_pic/big/30/3804111121051546__budapest_hosok_tere_1.jpg). The column in the centre of the open plaza is just as impressive as the pictures made it seem, and each of the statues in the stone surroundings stand out against the clear sky, catching Enjolras’ attention.

He spends a while taking pictures of them all, and debates whether or not it’s worth going into the art museums nearby. Grantaire would enjoy them, but without Grantaire, Enjolras can’t really find it in himself to muster up the energy to visit. He picks up a guide from the Museum of Fine Arts for Grantaire though, and heads to his next stop.

On his way to the [Hungarian Parliament buildings](http://thehungariangirl.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/DSC_5590-1024x680.jpg) he gets lost twice, both times saved by other tourists that have either come the way he’s going, or have stayed in the area for a little while and are more familiar with the signs. On occasion he tries to figure out the sign posts but Hungarian means nothing to him and he always ends up more confused and doubting himself than when he started.

The Parliament building, when he gets to it, is a gorgeous building, _neo-gothic_ a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Grantaire’s murmurs, made of white stone in contrast to the dark red of the roofs. He doesn’t come close to going inside, the lines are far too long and he didn’t pre-book a tour, so he heads down the bank of the river to [Chain Bridge](http://www.bridgesofbudapest.com/content/pictures/bridges/chain_bridge/chain_bridge_1.jpg).

 Walking across the bridge is a little terrifying, with all the cars zooming past and Enjolras meandering across rather uncertainly, but the bridge itself has an old quality to it and Enjolras runs his hands along the framework.

From the [Fishermen’s Bastion](http://travelconditions.biz/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/fishermans-bastion-budapest.jpg) Enjolras can see the Parliament buildings again, taking even more pictures from a different angle, admiring them as he flicks through. Idly, he wonders how many more pictures this camera can take before they run out of space.

The buildings themselves don’t hold Enjolras’ attention for long, but the view they provide of the city is one Enjolras hasn’t seen elsewhere, and he can easily see why there are so many tourists dotted around the area.

Hunger drives him onwards, leading him to a supermarket where he picks up enough food to make up a lunch, walking down to [Gellért Hill](http://www.budapestbylocals.com/image-files/gellert_hill_budapest03.jpg), finding a bench and sitting there whilst he eats. It’s not the same without Grantaire, and no matter how Enjolras try and ignore it, the overwhelming sense of just missing his presence can’t be denied.

He sighs and continues eating, moving on quickly enough, back over the river and into Váci Street, buying some presents for his friends from the shops. From there he passes the [Great Synagogue](http://www.budapestbylocals.com/image-files/synagogue_00.jpg) on Dohány Street, paying extra care with his photos for Joly, knowing how much he’d love to visit it one day.

Andrássy Avenue is his last stop before the café, back to pick up Grantaire on their way to Warsaw, so he walks slowly, avoiding the crowds as best as he can. He goes into a few shops but by the time he reaches the end of the avenue and takes a turn down a side street to the train station, his feet are aching and sore, and he just wants to sit down for a while.

Except the turn he made didn’t take him to the station, or to anywhere he’d been before and after twenty minutes of walking he doesn’t have a clue where he is. The street names don’t mean anything to him, and he can’t find them on the map so he has no idea how to get back to the avenue and fuck, he could have sworn that was the right turning.

A tap on his shoulder brings him back from the edge of frustrated crying, and he turns to see an anxious looking old woman staring at him, a man of similar age standing only a step behind. She talks quickly, the Hungarian fluent and entirely incomprehensible to Enjolras, who can only stare helplessly.

“Train station,” he blurts out after the woman stops talking to frown. There’s no sign of recognition across her face, or the man’s, so he tries again in English.

“Follow me,” she says carefully, beckoning him with her hand as she starts walking, holding the man’s hand as he follows too.

Enjolras trails behind, conscious not to get lost in the crowd and lose sight of the old couple, a disaster he couldn’t handle, until he spots the café and stops abruptly. “Thank you,” he says, pointing to the café, when she frowns again. “This is where I need to go, thank you. My, uh…”

“Destination?” the man supplies, and Enjolras nods.

“Congrats on not getting lost and dying,” is the first thing Grantaire says to him when he steps into the café, a smile bright on his face when he sees Grantaire putting his book down and waving to him. “Didn’t think you had it in you, oh wait, who is that Enjolras?”

The old couple followed him in, murmuring to each other in Hungarian until they spot Grantaire, sighing in relief. “Together?” She asks, and Enjolras nods again. “Good day.”

They leave and Enjolras takes a seat at the table. “There were some close incidents,” he laughs, picking up Grantaire’s bottle of water and downing the contents in one go, relishing in the chance to sit down. “Get everything done?”

“Yep,” Grantaire nods, his fingers tapping the cover of the book. “Not too long ago actually, but it’s emailed and triple saved, and the rest of the money should be going into my account tonight so that’s that sorted. Just in time for our big destination.”

Enjolras’ smile widens into a grin at the thought that tomorrow, not in a few days, not in a while, _tomorrow_ they’ll arrive at Warsaw and stay with Combeferre and Courfeyrac for a whole week. “Combeferre’s driving to the station, he’ll pick us up and take us to his home where we can drop our stuff and whatnot. Then we can talk with them and decide some of our plans for the week.”

“Hey, anything is good with me,” Grantaire says, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms. His t-shirt rides up, revealing a thin slither of skin just about his waistband. Enjolras swallows loudly and looks away. “When do we need to leave?”

“Not for a while yet,” Enjolras tells him. “The train leaves around half ten, so we can stay here for a bit? I know you haven’t left the café all day so if you want to get up and stretch your legs, we can, but I’ve been walking all day and would love to sit for a little longer?”

“Fine with me,” Grantaire assures him. “Fancy playing another game of cards? I bet I’ll win this time.”

***

The train ride is long, around eleven hours, but they both sleep most of the journey away, arriving in Warsaw on time, quarter to ten in the morning. Enjolras’ limbs are sore from the thin beds and lack of movement, Grantaire jokingly offering to massage his shoulders and blushing when Enjolras takes him up on it, “But not until we get to Combeferre’s,” he adds as an afterthought.

Enjolras drops his bag and breaks into a sprint the second he spots Combeferre, practically colliding into him with enough force that he staggers backwards as he catches Enjolras.

“Nice to see you too,” Combeferre laughs, his arms tightening like a vice around Enjolras’ waist, lifting him from the ground.

Enjolras buries his face in Combeferre’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his aftershave. “I missed you so much,” he gasps, still clinging to Combeferre when his feet plant firmly on the tiled floor. “Where’s Courfeyrac?”

“He just went to the toilets,” Combeferre tells him, craning his neck to look behind him, “He should be back – ah, there he is.”

Enjolras is sprinting over to Courfeyrac next, pulling him into a tight hug and knocking their foreheads together. Courfeyrac’s much smaller than both Enjolras and Combeferre, so there’s not much lifting and spinning going on, but it’s a long hug and Enjolras doesn’t want to let go.

“I knew you’d arrive when I wasn’t here, I knew it.” Courfeyrac breaks the embrace in the end, stepping back and beaming up at Enjolras. His smile is as bright as Enjolras remembers, and he has to stop himself from yanking him back into another hug.

“R!” Courfeyrac shouts, and Grantaire looks up from where he’s talking with Combeferre, dragging Enjolras’ bag behind him. “It’s good to see you, man, it’s been so long.”

“Missed all the stories you always have to tell,” Grantaire teases but his smile is genuine as he pats Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Oh no, you’re the ones that are gonna be regaling us with stories,” Courfeyrac says, linking arms with them both, hurrying them out of the train station. “Travelling across Europe, God, I want to hear it all, okay go.”

Their whole trip back to Combeferre’s family house, out of the city centre and somewhere in the suburbs of Warsaw, is filled with Enjolras and Grantaire narrating their trip from beginning to end. They skim over some parts, like the Venice incident, but make up for it by elaborating on the sights they saw, and the funny anecdotes Grantaire excels at spinning.

“You should have been there,” he says between bursts of laughter, a smile split across his face, “He literally had to be escorted to the café by this old couple because he was so lost.”

“I was not _escorted_ ,” Enjolras interjects, only half-heartedly complaining, everyone’s enjoying the story too much to ruin it with his complaints, and it _was_ amusing. “They offered to show me the way and I accepted.”

“Because you would have ended up back in Austria before you reached me in the café,” Grantaire wipes a tear from his eye, tapping Enjolras’ thigh where they’re squished together in the back seats of Combeferre’s tiny car. “Admit it, you were so helplessly lost.”

Enjolras sighs, rolling his eyes fondly. “Alright, I was a little lost –”

“ _Helplessly_ lost.”

“—fine, I was helplessly lost, but it was hard! You’ve been doing most of the navigating on this whole thing.”

“It’s a good thing you came then, R,” Combeferre says, flicking his gaze between them both through the rear view mirror. “Enjolras would never have made it here otherwise.”

“I resent that,” Enjolras pouts, but there’s an element of truth to it, he’d have had a much harder journey if Grantaire hadn’t have come, and a much less enjoyable one too. His friends just laugh in response, and he can’t help joining in.

***

Combeferre’s house is bursting at the seams with life when they finally arrive, somewhere past eleven. There’s a delicious smell coming from the kitchen, Combeferre’s mother poking her head out just long enough to introduce herself and apologise for being busy but there’s a lot of people to cook for, and she really wasn’t lying. Objectively, Enjolras has always known that Combeferre’s family is big, especially to him, an only child, but every room is occupied by someone, be it a sibling or an aunt, a cousin or an uncle. Enjolras struggles to keep track of all the names thrown at him, smiling and nodding as they talk, unfortunately not in French.

“It gets less intimidating over time,” Courfeyrac whispers to him as they head up the stairs and down the tight corridor to the guest room, already set up for Enjolras and Grantaire to use. “I’ve been trying to pick up some Polish but I just can’t get my head around it.”

“To be fair,” Combeferre says, shaking his head as he pushes open the door and ushers them in, “you wanted to start with dirty talk, which is not how you go about learning a language.”

“Hey, it was worth a shot,” Courfeyrac shrugs, unrepentant, and sits on the bed nearest the large, open window. “But I know enough conversational Polish to talk to your granddad, though I don’t have a clue what he says half the time other than something about the war.”

“He doesn’t subvert many stereotypes, does he?” Combeferre sits, next to him, rest his arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“How’s your dad?” Enjolras asks, dropping his bag to the side, near the wardrobe, and sitting on the other bed. He pats the space next to him, encouraging Grantaire to sit, because he knows how he can get with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and he doesn’t want Grantaire to feel awkward or left out, especially not when he hasn’t got anywhere else to go.

“He’s alright at the moment,” Combeferre says, his voice carefully controlled, causing Enjolras to think that maybe he brought this up at a bad time. “He should be okay until Christmas, I think. It’s nice to see him now while he’s still got life in him.”

Before Enjolras can reply, his mother yells something, the Courfeyrac proudly translates into “Lunch is ready,” and they head down to the tiny kitchen, packed full of people forming a haphazard queue to pile their plates high with food. The selection to choose from is massive, most of it food Enjolras recognises from Combeferre’s attempts to feed him traditional Polish food back in France, but it could probably feed a crowd twice their size and still have some left over.

Enjolras recommends some bits to Grantaire, but he seems happy enough to try everything, and they follow Combeferre and Courfeyrac out into the living room where there’s a little more space.

“Have you decided on any plans for the week?” Combeferre asks when they’ve finished eating and he’s loaded all the plates into the dishwasher.

“I think we agreed that we’d like to see some sights in the city,” Grantaire says, looking over to Enjolras for confirmation.

Enjolras nods, cocking his head in thought. “It’d be nice to spread that over a few days, so it’s not as frantic as all the other cities have been, and I’d like to go out for lunch or dinner at some point, maybe on a couple of days, you know what’s good, Combeferre.”

“Today can be a rest day though,” Grantaire leans back into the settee he’s sitting on, resting his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, who in turn snuggles closer to Combeferre, making them look something akin to dominoes. “You don’t know how amazing it is to not have to think about travel times or seeing the best places before we have to leave.”

“We can work with that,” Courfeyrac says, “Plus, it means I can still watch the reruns of _Poland’s Next Top Model_ tonight and I’m not missing those.”

They stay downstairs for the rest of the day, watching _Poland’s Next Top Model_ with Combeferre’s eldest sister, Kasia, and taking bets on who’s most likely to be kicked off each episode. Grantaire surprises them all by showing off his uncanny ability for guessing correctly every time, to the point where he has to prove that he’s not seen them before.

Around ten, Enjolras starts yawning, leaning back into Combeferre’s legs and stretching his own, having shifted to the floor somewhere during the early evening. He half-heartedly listens to Combeferre and Grantaire discuss the concept of a fundamental human nature and he doesn’t even know how they got to that from who should win the TV show but he’d be interested in the debate if he weren’t so _tired_.

“I’m gonna head up now,” he announces, dragging himself to his feet and patting Combeferre’s thigh absently, “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Don’t get up too early for us,” Combeferre says with a wry smile, “I know how you get when birds are chirping outside.”

Enjolras laughs, stepping over the mess of limbs from the others on the floor, only to be held back by Grantaire, catching his arm and bringing him to a halt.

“I’ll join you,” he says, lifting himself off the settee with a startling amount of grace considering how squishy those settees are, and waving his goodnights to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

They head up to the guest room in silence, thankfully getting the correct room on the first try. Enjolras starts rummaging through his stuff to find his pyjamas when Grantaire coughs awkwardly behind him.

“So you, uh, still feeling sore after that night in the train?” Grantaire asks, one hand resting on the back of his neck as he stares at Enjolras. “Because I’m actually really good at massages, like I used to do them for Jehan when he went to yoga and Bahorel after he’d work out in the gym. If you’re still sore it’d be a good idea to work the knots out now, you know, instead of being stiff tomorrow, especially if we’re walking about the city.”

Truthfully, Enjolras hasn’t felt any stiffness in his muscles all day, since he woke up, but… but Grantaire has hypnotic hands. Enjolras has found himself staring at those hands on so many different occasions. They’re dextrous and the perfect balance between rough and soft, and well, he’ll never turn down a free massage if it’s being carried out by Grantaire, so he nods, dropping his things to the bed. “That’d be great, if it’s no bother to you, thank you.”

“It’s fine, honestly,” Grantaire insists, taking his bag off his bed to make more room, before standing hesitantly to the side. “Shoulders, right?”

“Yeah, shoulders and back. Should my shirt be on or off?”

Grantaire’s face pales and he takes a long moment to come up with a response. “Either way is fine, do what you’re most comfortable with.”

“Off then.” Enjolras strips off his shirt, dumping it on his bed and climbing on to Grantaire’s. “Do I need to lie down?”

“Sitting up is fine,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras feels the mattress dip slightly behind him where Grantaire positions himself. “Right, so uh, anything you don’t like or feels painful, just tell me and I’ll stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

Grantaire’s touch is tentative at first, skimming Enjolras’ shoulders with his fingertips, dragging them down between the blades and along the ridge of his spine, to the small of his back. Enjolras sighs, letting his eyes fall shut, and focuses on the pressure Grantaire applies to his shoulders when he starts the massage.

A few minutes in and Enjolras knows that Grantaire was not lying when he said he was good at these. He works at the knots or whatever in Enjolras’ shoulders, pressing his fingers and knuckles into Enjolras’ flesh in such a way that he has to concentrate on taking slow, even breaths to stop himself from moaning obscenely. All tiredness has fled from his system, he’s completely awake and hyperaware of Grantaire’s every movement, every shift, every breath. Enjolras can feel all of it.

“How is it?” Grantaire asks as he moves down lower, to Enjolras mid-back and he can’t help the whimper that escapes his lips then. “You’ve been worryingly silent.”

“It’s amazing,” he replies, his voice breathy enough to give away just how unbelievable this feels. He’s a little hazy at the edges of his mind, and arching back into Grantaire’s touch, slowly filled with a craving for _more_. He wants Grantaire touching him all over, to caress every inch of skin. He wants Grantaire’s lips on his body, reverent and full of wonder like he knows they’ll be. He want more of Grantaire than is good for him, and now, when he’s half naked with a growing erection and being massaged by Grantaire, is a _terrible_ time to realise that.

“I’m glad you think so,” Grantaire says and there’s something tight in his voice, and maybe if Enjolras rested his hands behind him, slid them up Grantaire’s thigh to his crotch he’d find that Grantaire’s just as hard as he is and God, he wants to know if that’s true but he can’t, he absolutely should not grope Grantaire without knowing if that’s okay. “I think you should be sufficiently massaged now.”

Enjolras stands abruptly, facing away from Grantaire, trying to force his erection to go away by sheer will power. “Do you think it’s too late to shower?”

“Doubt it, I mean, most of the house is still awake so, go for it.”

“Right,” Enjolras grabs his pyjamas, from his bed and stalks out of the room, trying to remember where the upstairs bathroom is.

It’s empty when he finds it, thank God, so he starts the shower and strips off his shorts and underwear, tossing them to the side and stepping under the hot water. It nearly scalds his skin as it beats down against his back, dampening the loose strands of hair from his bun, but he doesn’t care, not when he can finally wrap a hand round his dick, stroking it to full hardness and get some relief.

The water makes a terrible lubricant, but he fists his cock almost fiercely, thinking of Grantaire’s warm hands on his skin, that smile he wears when he’s making fun of Enjolras, the broadness of his shoulders that Enjolras just wants to dig his nails into as he rides Grantaire into the mattress – _fuck_.

He wonders if Grantaire’s doing this back in their room, jerking off thinking about Enjolras. Slamming one hand against the wall to steady himself as the other strokes himself relentlessly, swiping over the head of his cock on upwards strokes, exactly like Enjolras is doing.

The thought of Grantaire moaning in pleasure, loud and unashamed, has Enjolras hurtling over the edge, coming in thick spurts against the tiles of the bathroom wall. He fists his cock until he’s finished, the post-orgasm haze settling in his bones, and he sinks to the floor, letting the spray of the shower wash away the remnants of his orgasm.

Grantaire’s in his bed, under his duvet, when Enjolras returns, trying to muster up some shame for what he just did but he can’t bring himself to regret the act, no matter how questionable it is to masturbate thinking of your close friend, only a few doors down.

“Goodnight, R,” Enjolras whispers, tucking himself into his own bed and burrowing under the duvet, hoping for a decent night’s sleep.

***

The morning comes too soon, bringing without shouts Enjolras doesn’t understand – Polish, he eventually figures out through his sleepy mind, and bangs and crashes probably caused by someone cooking.

With a long, drawn out groan, he checks the small clock on the bedside table between the two beds, blinking at it blearily until the numbers make sense. It’s past eleven and he still feels like he could use another millennia of sleep, but Grantaire’s bed is empty which probably means Combeferre and Courfeyrac are up, and Enjolras isn’t wasting any time that could be spent with them all.

“I missed the sight of Enjolras first thing in the morning,” Courfeyrac greets him when he steps into the kitchen having followed the scent of coffee to its source. “Here.”

Courfeyrac hands him a mug of coffee, pointing to the spare chair around the dining table. Combeferre’s brother is talking with Combeferre animatedly, pointing at the map Grantaire must have taken from his things before he woke up.

“They’re arguing over which historical sights are worth seeing,” Grantaire explains, sipping at his own drink. “The Uprising Museum sounds promising.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre says suddenly, breaking off the Polish to talk to them in French, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Andrzej, but he insists the museum isn’t interesting and we should visit the statues around the city instead.”

Enjolras slowly finishes his coffee, watching the to-and-fro between Combeferre and his brother with a fondness he has for siblings, having been an only child, despite the fact that Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both from large families, have told him time and time again that siblings are a nightmare more often than not.

“What’s Combeferre’s first name?” Grantaire asks, drawing Enjolras out from his thoughts.

“Piotr,” Courfeyrac supplies, managing the pronunciation far better than Enjolras ever could. “Did you really not know? He’s not secretive about it like some of us are.” Courfeyrac stares at Enjolras, tutting softly.

“Never thought to ask,” Grantaire shrugs, turning to stare at Enjolras (which does _not_ make Enjolras’ cheeks heat, not at all). “What _is_ your first name, Enjolras?”

“None of your business,” Enjolras huffs. “Do you know when we’re leaving? I’d rather go get changed than sit through the upcoming inquisition over my name.”

“Around twenty minutes?” Courfeyrac doesn’t exactly sound sure of himself, but Enjolras will take it.

“See you then.”

***

They do end up going to [the Uprising Museum](http://www.inyourpocket.com/gallery/49035.jpg), which doesn’t surprise Enjolras if Combeferre was championing it, driving into the city centre and walking the short distance to the site. Enjolras doesn’t know much about Polish history, other than its role in the Second World War, so he happily accepts Combeferre as his willing guide.

It turns out that the Warsaw Uprising took place _during_ World War Two, something which Enjolras feels like he should have known. Combeferre takes them round the exhibits, translating the letters from soldiers for them, and telling them stuff he remembers from his history lessons back in school. Enjolras ends up buying a book on the uprising and other areas of Polish history from the gift shop at the end.

From there it’s the [Monument to the Ghetto Heroes](http://www.memorialmuseums.org/img/cache/25b8f84d9413763116363c87bdc2e1c5_w800_h600.jpg) and a visit to the museum situated behind it, where Grantaire takes plenty of photos for Joly. They eat a picnic lunch that Combeferre brought (courtesy of his mother, according to Courfeyrac, who refused to let Combeferre leave the house without it), and head on to the [Mermaid statue](https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4136/4936368473_fc13e49526_z.jpg) and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier for the afternoon.

When they finally arrive at the Chopin monument, they’re all walked out and looking for somewhere to sit down before they take a long walk back to Combeferre’s car. Courfeyrac and Grantaire head off on “a quest for ice cream” or so Grantaire puts it, telling Enjolras he’ll surprise him with a flavour before darting off, his arms linked with Courfeyrac’s.

“So I’m only going to bring this up once,” Combeferre starts when he and Enjolras sit on an empty bench off the side of the path trailing off into the park. “Mostly because it’s not really any of my business and I refuse to fulfil the best friend cliché where I interrogate you about your personal life, but I think you deserve some interrogation after the hell you put me through before Courfeyrac and I started dating.”

“Oh God.”

Combeferre hums, a smirk toying at his lips and Enjolras doesn’t know why anyone thinks he’s not capable of causing torment. “So you and Grantaire seem awfully close.”

“Travelling across Europe can do that to people,” Enjolras shrugs, aiming for nonchalance in the hope that if he stalls enough, Courfeyrac and Grantaire will arrive back with ice cream before he has to confess, and Combeferre may have a wicked streak but he’s not cruel, he’d never expect Enjolras to talk about this in hearing distance of Grantaire.

“That’s not the whole story though, is it?”

Enjolras laughs, the sound coming out as more of a pained wheeze. “No, not quite.” Enjolras takes a moment to sort through his thoughts, trying to pin point an exact moment where his feelings towards Grantaire took a turn for the romantic. Venice, when he thought Grantaire wouldn’t come back and was overjoyed to see that he had? Vienna, when they were mistaken for a couple and the thought of dating Grantaire was not off-putting at all? Before that, when Grantaire’s presence in his days became a regular thing that he embraced?

“It’s difficult,” he says, helpless to say anything else.

“It always is,” Combeferre murmurs, sympathetic at least.

“I can’t describe it. I can’t put a when or a how to it. I can’t tell you if there was a trigger, a shining moment where my feelings changed, or if it was a gradual process. Sure, the proximity of seeing him and having only him to talk to every day has influenced me, of course, but it feels like it has just sped up the inevitable.” Enjolras stops, exhaling sharply and smiling. “Inevitable. That’s what it is. Even though we have our differences, and God knows we wouldn’t have an easy relationship, it was going to happen eventually, and I’m glad it happened now when I still have the chance to act on it.”

“He’s made a romantic sap out of you after all.”

“Oh fuck off,” Enjolras says, his shoulders trembling with laughter. “I just need to decide _when_ to tell him.”

“You’ll come up with something, I’m sure.” Combeferre’s eyes focus on something over Enjolras’ shoulder. “They’re back, you’re free now.”

Grantaire and Courfeyrac arrive with ice cream, Courfeyrac handing Combeferre a cone and Grantaire offering Enjolras a tub of something bright green. “I was going to get you vanilla,” Grantaire explains, “because that’s what you get like, every time we buy ice cream, but I thought you should be a bit more adventurous with your ice cream choices so that’s pistachio, it’s nice trust me.”

“Thank you.” The ice cream is more than nice, it’s delicious. Enjolras will definitely be buying it again, and when he tells Grantaire that, the smile that he gets in response has his heart racing.

They arrive back at Combeferre’s home about half an hour before dinner, Combeferre’s mother and uncle in the middle of preparing some huge pie-style dish that could feed a thousand.

“I can’t believe you ever moved out of this home when your mum makes meals like that _every day_ ,” Courfeyrac says after they’ve eaten, absolutely stuffed. “If my parents could cook like yours, I would have stayed there forever.”

“Your mum would have kicked you out before your twenty-first,” Enjolras laughs, sprawling out over Combeferre and Courfeyrac so he’s lying on top of them, his head resting on the arm of the settee. Grantaire’s curled up on the floor, just underneath Enjolras head, playing cards with Combeferre’s sister.

Combeferre smooths his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, murmuring something to Courfeyrac under his breath. Enjolras turns his attention to Grantaire’s hands, thumbing the edges of his cards, tapping his lip when he’s thinking. He starts to drift after a few games, weaving in and out of a light sleep, until he’s being lifted, clutched against someone’s chest.

With a start, he wakes and realises it’s Grantaire who’s carrying him. His strong arms are cradling Enjolras against his chest, one hooked under his legs and the wrapped around his back, Enjolras’ head pressed against his shoulder.

“Oh shit, sorry if the movement woke you,” Grantaire says, looking down at Enjolras. “You fell asleep on the settee and it’s late, so we thought you should at least be crashed out on your bed. You’re not that heavy really, like a giant noodle with all these limbs, so I offered to carry you up.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras croaks, fisting his hand around the front of Grantaire’s shirt, praying his blush isn’t giving anything away. He mourns the loss of Grantaire’s body heat when he’s placed on his bed, as if he couldn’t walk the rest of the way when he woke up, but Grantaire’s grip didn’t lessen and Enjolras had no desire to change position.

Enjolras waits until Grantaire’s in his own bed and trying to sleep before he hurries out into the bathroom, brushing his teeth fiercely and splashing water over his face, breathing heavily. He squeezes his eyes shut, counting out his breathes, waiting until he’s calm before opening them again. He can handle this. He can handle the easy affection he’s receiving from Grantaire now, he can handle the excuses to touch each other, he can absolutely handle the increasing desire to say fuck everything and just kiss him.

He sneaks back into their room and burrows himself under his duvet, trying to slow his thoughts to sleep.

***

The week passes too quickly for Enjolras’ liking, the days slipping by as they visit more of Warsaw, or just spend the day in each other’s company at a café or a park or in Combeferre’s living room. Enjolras loves seeing more of Combeferre’s home town, stopping by the places that he remembers from childhood no matter how much Grantaire teases him for it.

Combeferre drives them back to the train station after their last evening out at Combeferre’s favourite restaurant. Their train doesn’t leave until two, but Courfeyrac insisted on waiting with them at the station until they’ve left and there’s no other option but to go home.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Enjolras whines, burying his face in Combeferre’s shoulder, clinging to Courfeyrac’s arm.

“I know, we’ll miss you too.” Courfeyrac wraps his arms around Enjolras and Combeferre both, trapping Enjolras between their bodies in a giant hug. “You too, R, get over here. We’re gonna miss you as well.”

Grantaire joins their hug after Combeferre pulls him in, tucking himself against Enjolras’ side. Realistically, they can’t stay like that forever, but it’s only when the other passengers start coughing and grumbling at them for taking up so much space on the walk way that they actually split.

“We need to go now,” Grantaire says softly, patting Combeferre on the shoulder and squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand. “Train should be here in minutes.”

Enjolras sighs, giving them both one last hug before picking up his bag and waving over his shoulder as he follows Grantaire through the station and ticket tolls to the platform, just in time for the train.

“They’ll be back before you know it,” Grantaire assures him once they’ve settled into their compartments, tucking their bags away and getting into the slim beds. “There’s only a few months or so left of the summer anyway. July and August will fly by.”

“There’s three months of summer left,” Enjolras laughs because he feels like he’ll cry otherwise. “I guess I could always come visit them again, maybe in a few months. I could even brace a plane if it meant I could stay there longer.”

“By yourself?” Enjolras can hear the surprise in Grantaire’s tone, despite the darkness of their room.

“Well in the summer, more of our friends would be able to come? And they all miss Combeferre and Courfeyrac too, so maybe not by myself.” Enjolras sighs. “I don’t know, flying is expensive and there’s the case of holidays and I can’t plan this all in bed in a train at like, half two in the morning. Ask me again when we’re back in Paris.”

Grantaire bursts into laughter, and in moments Enjolras joins him, not bothering to stifle the giggles with his fist. “Deal, now go to sleep, Enjolras, it sounds like you need it.”

“Night, R.”

***

It’s bright and sunny when they arrive in Berlin, the early morning taunting Enjolras with its too chipper bird song and blue skies that make him want to crawl back into his bed for another hour or five. Still, Grantaire buys him a coffee and that makes him feel a little more alive as they leave the station.

“So, our plans for the day are…?” Grantaire’s smiling easily today, bumping Enjolras’ shoulder with his own and walking closer to him than normal, like he might want to hold hands as they walk, but he hasn’t quite worked up the courage to do so.

“I thought we could visit the Berlin Wall,” Enjolras says as he pulls out the map he set up before they left Warsaw, knowing it’d be a lost cause trying to plan their route on the train. “And head on down to Checkpoint Charlie, and you suggested the Bauhaus so we’ll visit that, and that’s close enough to our hostel that we could retire early or sit somewhere. I think there’s a forest somewhere.”

“Probably don’t want to risk getting lost in a forest,” Grantaire laughs, peering over Enjolras’ shoulder at the map. “Not when neither of us can speak German.”

Enjolras hums, trying to picture him and Grantaire stuck there overnight. It’s a slightly terrifying thought, but it’d make a great story for when they return. “I’m positive there’d be paths we could stick to.”

“Where’s the fun in that, though?”

“You’ve got a point,” Enjolras concedes, focusing his attention on trying to match one of the street names he can see to the ones on the map to start them on their walk.

In the end they don’t go to the forest (“[Grunewald](http://images.letsgo.com/region-images/Germany-Berlin-Shoneberg-Grunewald-Forest.jpg)!” Grantaire exclaims at one point, “That’s the forest. I knew I’d heard of it before,”) but they do walk up to the Berlin Wall Memorial, wandering along the length of the restored sections and snapping pictures of the graffiti that Enjolras thinks Bahorel would like.

From there they walk to [Checkpoint Charlie](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6a/Checkpoint_Charlie_Berlin.jpg), visiting the tourist centre to make sure they’re on the right track for the Bauhaus. Grantaire spends most of the time there telling Enjolras about the Cold War conspiracy theories he and Bossuet once spent an afternoon looking up, Enjolras’ personal favourite being the one which suggested that President JFK was a shape-shifting reptilian in disguise.

They spend the afternoon in the [Bauhaus](http://bauhaus-online.de/files/imagecache/480h/bilder/AnsHintz300_0_1.jpg) where Enjolras learns more about architecture than he thought he ever would, and what has quickly become his favourite part about museums, he gets to see Grantaire talk animatedly about the displays for a whole afternoon.

They’re on their way to the hostel for the evening when Grantaire spots a small photo booth on the street corner. “Come on,” he says, dragging Enjolras over and ushering him in before another group of people can get to it.

“Do you have any coins? I think I’ve got some,” Grantaire mutters, patting down his pockets for the couple of euro they’ll need. “Ah, found it, okay, we want a whole strip because I’m gonna make these good, and Jehan will definitely want to keep a photocopy in the scrapbook he will inevitably put together so okay, first one, smile, Enjolras.”

Grantaire’s stream of conscious thought has Enjolras wide-eyed and hurrying to keep up with him, trying to keep his mind off the lack of space between them because his fingers are a breath away from Grantaire’s. It would be _so_ easy to reach across and hold his hand.

“Enjolras you did not smile at all, these things are too expensive to have a redo, come on.”

He smiles his most brilliant, dazzling smile that he can for the next one, angling his head towards Grantaire so that if he leant just a little closer, it’d be resting on his shoulder.

“That’s it,” Grantaire breathes when the flash goes off and the next ten second countdown appears on the screen. “Okay, pull a funny face.”

“Like?”

“Blow out your cheeks or something,” Grantaire laughs, contorting his own face into such a bizarre image that Enjolras ruins the third photo by bursting into laughter, his head hitting the back wall of the booth with a loud thud.

“Shit, are you okay?” The fourth photo is of Grantaire checking the back of Enjolras’ head for a bump or scrape, despite Enjolras’ assurances that he’s fine.

He actually manages to pull a face for the fifth, thinking back to all the times he’s seen Joly blow air into his cheeks, pulling out his ears and crossing his eyes. He mimics it as best as he can, certain that he looks absolutely ridiculous but thrilled with the beam it earns from Grantaire.

The sixth and final photo, Enjolras isn’t sure he wants to look at it. They didn’t pose, Grantaire was too busy grinning at Enjolras to tell him to do something, and Enjolras certainly didn’t want to look away from Grantaire. When they’ve printed the strip off and have the chance to see them all, with the filter the booth added, it very much looks like they’re a couple (and Enjolras heart lurches only a little). With a quick stop to a café for dinner, they head to the hostel to dump their stuff and just not have to walk for a while.

“You know, when we get back to Paris, I think I’m just gonna not leave my flat for like, a week,” Grantaire says after an hour or two of a comfortable silence, Enjolras having spent the time catching up with Bahorel and Jehan over Skype. “Just stay in bed for the week, sleep, give my feet a rest. I swear I’ve done more walking over this past week than I have for like, a month at home.”

“It can’t be that much, can it?” Enjolras rolls over on his bed to face Grantaire, watching him play something with the deck of cards, solitaire maybe, he explained that one to Enjolras a while back but it seemed a little too complex for him to keep up with.

“Probably not but it feels like it.” Grantaire frowns at the cards, sweeping them into one big pile and shuffling them quickly before tying the elastic band around the deck. “Early morning tomorrow?”

“Yep,” Enjolras sighs, “Five AM early. Amsterdam’s quite a long ride away.”

“Better get some sleep then,” Grantaire drops the cards into his bag and rolls over, pulling the duvet over his shoulders. “Night, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shuts down his laptop, tucking it away and climbing into his own bed. “Goodnight, R.”

***

Their train takes them to Amsterdam Central Station, arriving around noon so their first stop is to pick up lunch from the nearest shop they can find. In a few days they’ll be back in Paris, Enjolras will not miss having to substitute decent meals for store-bought snacks (as if his meals back at home are anything but store-bought, and if they’re not it’s only down to his friends’ influence).

“So the Rijksmuseum first?” Enjolras checks to make sure they’re going in the right direction, having been to Amsterdam once for a few hours when he was younger, he remembers it being difficult to navigate and he wouldn’t like a repeat performance of Budapest.

“Wow you butchered that pronunciation,” Grantaire laughs. “But yes, Rijksmuseum, then the Van Gogh Museum then I don’t know, Amsterdam was a European Capital of Culture, it’s full of things for us to look at or do. Take your pick, Enjolras.”

“That’s a good start for now.”

The [Rijksmuseum](http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02530/rijks_2530290b.jpg) is, of all the museums they’ve visited, by far the most breath-taking and interesting museum. Sure, he can only appreciate the art in an objective sense, clearly the artists are talented even though he’s not as inspired by it as Grantaire obviously is from the excited rambling and the bounce in his step when they walk. But Enjolras spends a long time studying the statues he sees, admiring the curves of the stone. He loves the gardens at the front, enjoying the walk with Grantaire as they leave the museum, sitting on a metal framed bench for a little while.

After that, the [Van Gogh museum](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/08/Van_Gogh_Museum_Amsterdam.jpg) is a little less impressive, but at least there he actually recognises most of the paintings, and can hold a conversation with Grantaire about them (not that he’d refuse listening to Grantaire’s tangents ever).

“Do you think Feuilly would like it if we bought him a book on Van Gogh’s art?” Grantaire asks as they browse the museum’s gift store before they leave, skimming over the various trinkets to the books on art history.

“He does like his work,” Enjolras nods, flicking through the book Grantaire picked up, mostly pictures of a load of paintings but there are sections on his history and trivia too. “Remember when Bahorel convinced him to go as Van Gogh for Courfeyrac’s fancy dress party one year? I swear I thought he actually cut off his ear half way through the party because of all the fake blood.”

“That was a wild ride of a night,” Grantaire says fondly, digging into his pockets for his wallet and taking the book from Enjolras and up to the counter.

Only a ten minute walk from the Van Gogh museum is a canal cruise stop, and Enjolras insists they go on one here, since they missed out on the gondolas in Venice. It’s better way of seeing the city than trying to work out how the trams work, and like always, a chance to rest their feet won’t go unmissed.

Thankfully, there’s a tour guide at the front of the boat that translates what he’s saying in Dutch to English as they sail, and Grantaire has to whisper the French translations in Enjolras’ ear for most of it since he draws a blank for the first ten minutes of the trip.

Light rain starts to fall as they get off the boat, back where they started. Neither of them actually bought umbrellas in Venice, despite the storm, but Grantaire points out that it’s hardly worth it now if the walk to the hotel isn’t really that long.

“Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before,” Grantaire stops suddenly, just outside an old looking shop with a worn down awning covering a few occupied tables outside. “Do you mind waiting here for a minute? I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Sure,” Enjolras shrugs, “Why not?”

He steps under the awning as Grantaire heads into the bar, watching the people out of the corner of his eyes. Most of the people are laughing and talking animatedly, but a few people are smoking something that doesn’t look quite like a regular cigarette – _oh_.

Grantaire’s back in a moment, carrying two bottles of water and a packet of what Enjolras thinks are probably brownies. He hands a bottle to Enjolras, uncapping his own and taking a long drink, before slipping the packet into the front pocket of his bag.

 “Back to the hotel?” Grantaire asks, slinging his bag back over his shoulders.

“Yep,” Enjolras replies, narrowing his eyes at the smirk on Grantaire’s face, “Thanks for the water too.”

“No problem.”

They walk to the hotel in a comfortable silence, checking in with ease and heading up to their room. Enjolras waits until they’re both settled, sitting on Grantaire’s bed with their bag lying on the floor. “So you bought pot brownies,” Enjolras says, flicking his gaze between the packet Grantaire’s holding and Grantaire himself.

Grantaire grins. “When in Amsterdam…”

“How strong are they?” Enjolras bites his lip as he speaks, his brows creasing.

“Not really that strong, it’s nothing compared to being blackout drunk, and you’ve managed that,” Grantaire tells him. “You don’t have to have one of course, don’t feel like you should because I will, but if you want one, it’ll just make you feel relaxed, a little giggly probably.”

Enjolras considers it, he’s seen most of his friends smoke weed that would undoubtedly be a lot stronger than this, and he has no real aversion he supposes. It’s not illegal here (not that he hasn’t done illegal things before) and if Grantaire’s right, which he almost certainly is, then he’ll just feel relaxed. Why not?

“I’ll have one,” he nods, firm with his choice. “I trust you.”

“These things are less dangerous than cigarettes, Enjolras,” Grantaire laughs, placing the brownies on to the packet, spread out on his duvet. “But thanks for the trust, I promise you’ll enjoy it. And if not, you never have to do them again.”

“Ready?” Enjolras picks up one, holding it just in front of his lips.

Grantaire shakes his head, staring affectionately at Enjolras as he eats one. Enjolras copies, surprised that they taste just like regular brownies, he could easily believe there was no pot in them. He’s about to say something when Grantaire pats down his pockets, frowning.

“I think my phone fell out of my pocket downstairs,” he explains, quickly rummaging through his bag before groaning. “I’ll be back in a moment, okay?”

“Sure.” Enjolras watches Grantaire leave before turning his attention to the rest of the brownies, three of the sitting on the packet. He doesn’t feel different, not really, he’s not particularly relaxed and he doesn’t feel like laughing. All the times he’s seen Bahorel smoke weed it’s been almost immediate, maybe he needs more?

He takes another brownie, chewing it slowly this time because that may affect the pot somehow, he doesn’t know. Another minute or so passes and still no change, so he eats a third and decides that if nothing happens after that, nothing is going to happen full stop.

“Yep, slipped out my pocket after I checked the time,” Grantaire announces, holding his phone up as he shuts the door behind him. “Shit, Enjolras, how many of those did you eat?”

“Three,” Enjolras squeaks, clenching his fists in his lap to stop his nervous fidgeting. “Was that bad? They weren’t doing anything.”

Grantaire covers his face with his hand, leaning back against the door. “It’s a gradual thing because they’re brownies, the effect doesn’t start right away.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Grantaire says, uncovering his face. His tone is affectionate, Enjolras thinks, so he knows he hasn’t fucked everything up too much. “You’re just gonna be really high now. Same effects, nothing scary.”

“I’m not worried,” Enjolras protests, “but you might want to eat the last one.”

Grantaire laughs. “You think?”

It’s a little while before the pot actually takes effect, but when it finally does, Enjolras is gasping for air around his giggles, sprawled out on Grantaire’s bed, his fingers toying with a stray curl resting on Grantaire’s forehead.

“I have to,” Enjolras wheezes, trying to form words between bursts of laughter because he has something important to tell Grantaire, he needs to tell him, it’s important but Grantaire’s hair is soft, really soft when he strokes it, he doesn’t want to stop stroking it but he has something to tell Grantaire. “It’s important.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Grantaire snorts, setting Enjolras off again and he erupts into giggles, tumbling off the bed and landing on the solid floor with a _thump_. “Shit, Enjolras,” he says, his voice trembling and that’s not right, Grantaire should be happy – oh, it’s laughter, he’s laughing with Enjolras on the floor, “are you alright?”

Enjolras nods weakly, letting Grantaire pull him back on to the bed, gasping as he hits the soft mattress. “Noodle limbs,” he cackles, flopping his arms across Grantaire to shuffle closer. “You said I have noodle limbs, back in… back in…”

“A giant noodle.” Grantaire agrees, pulling him close.

The pot doesn’t wear off for a long while, and after a few hours Enjolras’ belly aches from all the laughter, and there’s a damp spot on Grantaire’s shoulder where his eyes watered so much the tears soaked through the fabric.

He collapses on to Grantaire for sleep, tucking his head under Grantaire’s chin, despite the height difference, and drifting off easier than he has throughout all of the trip.

***

Enjolras’ alarm blasts out an irritatingly upbeat tune to wake them up, forcing Enjolras to lift his head from where it was still resting on Grantaire’s shoulder to track down his phone. He ends up on the floor, patting the carpet under the bed until his fingers find the lock button, switching off the alarm.

“R,” he groans, heaving himself back on to the bed and flopping across Grantaire, “R, we have to get up.”

“I’m comfortable,” Grantaire mumbles, barely opening his eyes. “Five more minutes.”

“Come on,” Enjolras nudges his shoulder, rolling Grantaire over on to his side. “We can’t miss the train.”

They only just make it in time, boarding the train a few minutes before it sets off from the station, no thanks to Grantaire who took his five more minutes and turned it into an extra half hour of sleep. Enjolras would be annoyed if Grantaire didn’t look so content in sleep and he wasn’t exceedingly jealous.

Brussels seems to fly by. Much to his delight, Enjolras can actually understand some locals who use French, and they manage to figure out the tram system enough to take that around the city. The [Grand-Place](http://www.solarworlds.co.uk/photo/photos/20080815_GrandPlacePanorama_700x467med.jpg) is stunning, the flowers covering a large section of the courtyard bright in the daylight, colours from all ends of the spectrum standing out against the grey stone surroundings.

They take pictures of it all, wandering through the historic buildings and visiting a few shops, picking up last minute gifts for everyone, including a box of Belgian chocolates that Grantaire refuses to pass by, insisting that they can take it home to share.

“It’s a good thing we’ll be home tomorrow because there’s so much stuff in this bag, I don’t think I’ll be able to carry it around for another full day,” Enjolras declares as they find a spot in a café looking out over the centre of the Grand-Place, dumping his bag underneath the table.

“That’s what you get when you buy presents for all your friends,” Grantaire says, folding his arms on the table, “especially when you have like, a billion friends to buy for.”

“You bought stuff for everyone too,” Enjolras points out. Grantaire put a lot of thought into the gifts he picked up, no matter what he says or how casual he acts about it.

“Point.”

After they’ve finished in the café they take the sightseeing bus from the edges of the Grand-Place, taking the red line for the ‘Europe’ route that has some sights they’re actually interested in seeing. The audio is crackly and often out of place, when they drove past the Palais de Justice they were still hearing information about a street they passed minutes ago, but they don’t have to worry about which direction to go in, just get off at the right stops, like the [Parliament buildings](http://www.jesus-is-savior.com/End%20of%20the%20World/tower_building-brussels.jpg) and the [Palais Royal](http://i1.trekearth.com/photos/85693/155.palais_royal.jpg).

They’re walking down a side street heading away from the Grand-Place, looking for a somewhere to eat when Enjolras says, “So we’ve got a really awkward train to catch tonight.”

“What about it makes it awkward?” Grantaire asks, pointing to a small Italian place across the street, lifting his eyebrows in a question.

“Sure, we can eat there. I’ll explain when we’re inside.” They’re seated quickly, placing their orders with ease, largely down to Grantaire being able to tell Enjolras what the dishes are.

“So the awkward train,” Grantaire starts, snapping one of the complimentary breadsticks in half and taking a bite.

“It leaves just after half one, but because Paris isn’t that far away, only an hour and a half really, we’ll be arriving there at three AM more or less,” Enjolras explains. “It was that or wait another few days in Brussels for a better train and well…”

“You figured we’d both want to be home?” Grantaire finishes, and Enjolras nods. “Good call, seeing other cities is great, I loved this trip, but man, I miss Paris and our friends and all these trains are a nightmare.”

“It’ll be great going home, sleeping in my own bed and just being in my own flat.”

“It’ll be weird though, not spending all our time together,” Grantaire muses, causing a frown to form on Enjolras’ face. “I’ve gotten used to spending pretty much every waking moment of the day with you, and sure we’ll still see each other but I bet I’ll wake up expecting you to buy me coffee, only to find you’re on the other side of Paris.”

Enjolras falls silent, struck with the realisation that Grantaire’s right, they’ll be back to irregular meetings, maybe running into each other, maybe not. No falling asleep tangled on the same bed, no long train rides they’ve got little to fill with except conversation, no ever-present Grantaire.

They drag the meal out for as long as they can, leaving the restaurant in the late evening with still a few hours to kill. Enjolras leads Grantaire back into the Grand-Palace, walking around the edges another few times just because it’s different when it’s dark, the lights illuminating precise curves in the architecture, casting the courtyard in a warm glow.

It’s close to midnight when they give in and head to the train station, taking over two small seats in the benches on their platform, watching other trains come and go.

“There aren’t many people here,” Grantaire whispers in Enjolras’ ear, warm breath tickling his neck. Enjolras glances around, for once noticing the lack of people. There’re a couple of small gatherings here and there, no more than four to a party as far as Enjolras can tell, but there’s nowhere near the amount there normally is.

“Must be because of the train,” he shrugs. “If you don’t know a city, arriving there for the first time at three AM isn’t exactly ideal.”

When the train comes, they board quickly into the last but one carriage and stowing their bags. Grantaire takes the window seat and Enjolras slides in next to him, staring around.

“There’s no one else in here,” he says when the train jolts into motion, taking them on their journey home.

“Huh.” Grantaire takes a look around, the empty seats confirming what Enjolras told him. “I guess we don’t have to worry about being too loud now.”

Enjolras laughs, leaning his head against Grantaire’s shoulder and letting his eyes fall shut. He stays like that for a while, thinking about his flat, the comfort of his bed, the warmth that comes from just being in his own home, but there’s a sourness to it, the same sourness he felt at the restaurant. There won’t be any Grantaire. He won’t be such a big part of Enjolras’ life anymore, but he doesn’t want that, he wants all of Grantaire.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says, his voice hushed. “I know you came for yourself just as much as you came for me, but… thank you, you’ve made it far more enjoyable than it would have been otherwise.”

“Don’t get all sentimental on me now,” Grantaire laughs quietly. He leans his head against Enjolras’, nuzzling gently. “But for the record, I’m glad I came too.”

Enjolras turns his head up to face Grantaire, their lips a breath away from touching. “Will you miss this?”

“Miss what?” Grantaire’s eyes drops to Enjolras’ lips, parted slightly and so close to his own.

“Just… this, me, spending so much time together.”

“We can still spend time together,” Grantaire breathes, his voice low. “You’ve got my number, you know where I live. We can still see each other outside of this trip.”

“Good, I don’t want this to be over.” Enjolras exhales gently, lifting one hand from his lap and resting it on top of Grantaire’s. “Can I…?” He breaks off, trailing his gaze to Grantaire’s mouth and lifting his chin up enough that one small movement forwards would have them kissing.

“Yes,” Grantaire gasps and Enjolras is closing the distance, pressing his lips to Grantaire’s firmly. It lasts for a brief second, just long enough for Enjolras to note that Grantaire’s lips are as soft as he imagined them to be, before he’s pulling away and staring wide eyed at Grantaire.

There’s a moment of stillness, Enjolras completely unable to break his gaze with Grantaire. Their breaths come as one as the seconds tick by, neither quite sure how to address the line they’ve just crossed until Grantaire lets out a rough noise from deep within his throat and surges forward, kissing Enjolras fiercely.

His inexperience shows, Enjolras knows that, but when Grantaire’s hands travel up to cup Enjolras’ face, he couldn’t care less, throwing himself into the kiss with all the fervour he can muster. His mouth opens under Grantaire’s, moaning softly when their tongues slide together. This is better than he had hoped for, Grantaire’s fingers moving down to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer and kissing him harder. He breathes in Grantaire as his own hands clutch Grantaire’s shirt, never mind the arm rest digging into his stomach, or the discomfort of the chairs, kissing Grantaire like this makes up for all of it.

“We should talk about this,” Grantaire says between kisses, trailing down the column of Enjolras’ neck and sending shivers down his spine. “We should… we should talk about us.”

“We should,” Enjolras agrees, tipping his head back to give Grantaire better access, groaning as his teeth scrape over the marks he left at the base of his neck. “Later though. We can talk later, I don’t want to stop this now.”

Grantaire’s kisses return to Enjolras’ mouth, and Enjolras is picking up a technique now, finding out what makes him gasp and repeating it until Grantaire’s just as breathless as he is. Kissing Grantaire sky rockets up to being one of Enjolras’ favourite things. He loves the intimacy, the warmth radiating from Grantaire, the stubble burn he’s developing on his smooth cheeks (he does not think about Grantaire’s face leaving stubble burn on the inside of his thighs, not at all), but as heat stirs low in his belly and the arm rest separating them is more irritating than painful now, it’s clear that kissing is not enough.

“Will this thing fucking move?” Enjolras hisses, tearing away from Grantaire and yanking the arm rest up, only to find that it moves easily, slotting in place between their two seats. “Oh thank God.”

He clambers on to Grantaire’s lap, tangling his hands in Grantaire’s hair, tugging on the curls and eliciting a moan. Grantaire’s hands fly up to Enjolras’ waist, steadying so that he doesn’t slip down on to the probably disgusting train floor as it rocks, but drawing him closer at the same time. It takes a moment of shuffling to get Enjolras’ knees bracketing Grantaire’s thighs, but when they do he can grind against Grantaire’s lap, a groan torn from his lips.

The friction is amazing, Enjolras’ bare legs rubbing against the rough denim of Grantaire’s jeans. He can’t seem to stop, panting into Grantaire’s mouth while his blood pounds in his ears because he’s rutting against Grantaire with only a few layers of denim between them and he doesn’t even know what country he’s in right now but Grantaire’s hands are sliding down to grasp his arse, pulling him impossibly closer.

“You should take your shirt off,” Enjolras mutters against Grantaire’s lips. His fingers skate along the hem, sneaking under to feel the soft flesh of his stomach and the coarse hair covering his torso, tantalisingly close to the waistband of Grantaire’s jeans. “We should definitely take your shirt off.”

“ _Fuck_ , Enjolras we cannot take our clothes off in the middle of a train.”

“No one else is here,” Enjolras grins, rolling his hips down against Grantaire’s, burying his face in the crook of Grantaire’s shoulder.

“There is not enough room for actual sex,” Grantaire whines, his hands moving from Enjolras’ arse up underneath his shirt despite his protests, rough against Enjolras’ skin and it’s like the massage all over again. He’s melting into Grantaire’s touch, arching back for more. “I don’t have condoms or lube or anything, and if you think I’m breaking my back to blow you here…”

“We don’t have to have penetrative sex,” Enjolras says between kisses and bites against Grantaire’s neck, sucking a bruise to match the ones on his skin. “Just… this.” He slows his hips to a careful grind, rocking against Grantaire and gasping when he feels Grantaire’s erection straining against his jeans. There’s something satisfying about Enjolras having this effect on Grantaire, that he’s not the only one rock hard and desperate for more.

Grantaire shakes his head, thrusting up sharply and jolting Enjolras forwards, a moan escaping his lips. “At least get your dick out,” he whispers, his breath hot against Enjolras’ skin.

It’s another scramble then, Enjolras raising himself up on to his knees enough that Grantaire can catch his lips in a kiss whilst his fingers pop open the button of Enjolras’ shorts and tug them down just enough that he can slip a hand into Enjolras’ boxers, uncovering his cock, achingly hard and leaking precome.

Enjolras keens into the kiss, turning messier and filthier the longer Grantaire strokes his cock, his grip loose to start with, probably to save Enjolras the embarrassment of coming straight away. He bites Grantaire’s lower lip, earning him a hiss and a faster pace on his dick, Grantaire’s thumb swiping over the head to gather the precome, slicking it along the shaft. It’s still too dry but Enjolras could not care as long as Grantaire’s touching him. Grantaire takes his hand off and spits into his palm, ignoring Enjolras’ wrinkled nose to resume jerking him off and that’s better, that’s _so_ much better.

Without realising it, his own hands have slid down to palm Grantaire through his jeans, feeling his cock twitch through the denim. He undoes the button and zipper, pulling his boxers down and wasting no time at all to stroke Grantaire to full hardness.

“Christ, Enjolras, I’m not going to last long here,” he pants, trailing wet open-mouthed kisses down Enjolras neck, moving his hands to Enjolras’ hips and grinding upwards, finally skin-to-skin and fucking hell Enjolras should have kissed Grantaire days ago, they should have done this and more in every city they visited.

The train shudders and Enjolras nearly falls, only Grantaire’s hands stopping him. He presses himself up as close as he can to Grantaire, their cocks rutting against each other messily, precome leaking everywhere and Enjolras has barely a moment to feel sorry for the next people to sit in these seats before he’s coming, crying out into Grantaire’s neck and spurting over their chests.

One of Grantaire’s hands snakes its way between them, fisting his cock until he’s following Enjolras over the edge, coming with an aborted attempt at Enjolras’ name.

They sit like that for an eternity, letting their breath come back to them and for their limbs to regain some feeling.

“I think I have a tissue in my back pocket,” Grantaire tells him, lifting himself off the seat cushion, accidentally rutting against Enjolras in the process and wincing at the whine Enjolras makes. “Shit, sorry you must be sensitive.”

“Good sensitive,” he laughs giddily, reaching into Grantaire’s back pocket and pulling out a few tissues, thank goodness. They clean themselves up as best they can (though there’s no saving their shirts), redoing their jeans and shorts, but Enjolras stays seated in Grantaire’s lap, sitting with his back against the train’s window, his legs stretched out towards the aisle.

“Come home with me,” he says after a few moments of silence. “When we get off the train in Paris, stay the night at my flat. We can sleep in my bed and in the morning I’ll get you that coffee I owe you. We can talk about us, about this then, but just… Come home with me.”

Grantaire grins, broader than Enjolras has ever seen. “I think you owe me a couple of coffees now, but yes, I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr!](http://achilleus.tumblr.com/)


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